Undone
by darcyfarrow
Summary: Cora's possession of the dagger forces Emma, Regina and Snow to make hard decisions, and Gold has to face up to the less-than-honorable life he's lived as he lies dying, just inches away from the antidote that could save him. Rated T for language and death of a major character.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

**New York, 12:20 pm**

They have no idea what to tell him: stay awake or try to sleep? Sit up or lie down? Drink plenty of water or drink nothing? Stay warm or cool down? Since they don't know what the poison was made of—can never know, since it's an original, magical concoction—they have no inkling of how to slow its progress. The two of them—Neal and Emma—help Gold into the back seat of Tamara's car, and Henry crawls in after, tucking a blanket from Neal's bed around his grandfather's shuddering body, tucking a pillow on his own knees so that Gold's head can rest comfortably there. Or, given the way the man's body spasms, "rest" and "comfortably" may be too much to hope for.

Emma leans over the back seat and starts to tell Henry to sit up front, let her sit with the sick man, but the determination in her son's expression causes her to pull back. There's nothing she could do for Gold, anyway; psychologically, perhaps Henry can offer more, her own relationship with Gold having always been prickly. She climbs into the shotgun seat and buckles up—the last thing they need is to be pulled over for a seat belt infraction. As Neal starts the engine, she glances back at her son to offer an encouraging smile, since she has no encouraging words to offer without lying. Henry's eyes are fixed on his grandfather's face, though, his hand clutching Gold's.

He's only eleven. A boy of that age shouldn't have to watch a murder happen, shouldn't have to experience the death of a grandfather in the same day he's learned they are related. She never should have brought him here. David and Mary Margaret could have hidden him away somewhere, kept him safe from Cora.

Emma glances at Neal, whose hands are steady on the wheel, but whose jaw is working. Emma knows that look: Neal's grinding his teeth. He does that in his sleep when he's stressed. Neal's eyes flick to the rear view mirror and a tic in his cheek develops, reminding Emma of the depth of feeling the man is capable of. There's so much she needs to ask him, in private: who's Tamara? Are you still stealing for a living? What are your intentions for our son? Do you still feel anything for me? She needs information in order to decide whether to allow him into Henry's already complicated life. Then she glances at Henry and knows Gold was right: it's not her decision. The best she can do to protect her relationship with Henry is to facilitate his relationship with Neal.

Let Neal be the one who screws it up.

Emma reaches for her phone.

**Storybrooke, 12:20 pm**

Cora and Regina are in the kitchen of the mayor's mansion. They're cooking together, something they've never done before. When Regina was a child and would have delighted in a cooking lesson with her mommy, Cora was too concerned with appearances to allow Regina to enter the kitchen. No, cooking was for servants. It was time-consuming and bloody work, involving plucking feathers, splitting breasts, breaking bones, yanking out innards.

But here, everything's different. Cooking is so much cleaner, and the many gadgets in Regina's kitchen make the work quite entertaining: the coffee maker, the microwave, the stove, the blender, the mixer, the dishwasher and the garbage disposal. In just minutes the kitchen is filled with wonderful aromas and the counters are sparkling clean. Regina pours coffee and demonstrates how to doctor it with sugar and cream; Cora's never tasted coffee, but she takes it black despite Regina's warning, and she likes it. The bitterness teases her tongue.

Cora likes bitter things, Regina reflects as she slides a finger down the hilt of the Dark One's dagger. That dagger is an honored guest at this dinner party, taking pride of place in the center of the kitchen table as the women set out the china and silver. As they sit down to quiche and salad, each woman catches the other studying that knife. For Regina, it's a cog in the wheel that will, very soon, roll over Snow White and Emma, and when her enemies are crushed, her path to Henry will be free.

What happens after that, Regina's not so sure. Yes, it will be fun to control the Dark One. She will get back at him for every insult, every snub, every refusal. She'll begin by ordering him to drop to his belly and wiggle like the worm he is. After that, she'll tell him to lick the ground she walks on. She'll put a collar on him and parade him around town on his hands and knees: "Heel, Rumplestiltskin! Sit, Rumplestiltskin! Roll over!" He will carry her packages and scrub her floors and crouch at her favorite chair, serving as her ottoman as she reads the newspaper. And if he dares to make a face at her she'll swat his nose with that newspaper and trim her toenails with that dagger.

But after that, what? The Dark One will be her slave, but he'll be no less crafty and shifty than he is now. And she knows him too well to think he won't find a way to rebel the moment she slips up, lets down her guard. It's going to be a hell of a lot of work keeping the Dark One for a slave.

As Cora slices the quiche and places the largest piece on Regina's plate, Regina realizes she's worrying for nothing. Mother will take care of Rumplestiltskin. Wise, manipulative, scheming Mother will take care of everything.

**New York, 12:21 pm**

As Bae needles his fiancée's car down narrow streets made even narrower by parked vehicles, Emma opens her phone. She's no sooner brought up the contacts list when the gadget rings. She checks the caller ID before she answers. "Mary Margaret?"

"Emma! Can you hear me? The reception's dodgy here."

"I can hear you. I was just dialing your number. Listen, Hook found us—I don't know how, but he came to Neal's apartment and he attacked Gold with his hook. It was poisoned, and now Gold's—" she can't say the word, not with Henry listening in the back seat. "We're bringing him back. He needs magic."

"Back to Storybrooke?" Mary Margaret sounds alarmed, and that puzzles Emma.

"Yeah. He says he has an antidote in his shop."

"You can't bring him back. That's why I called. Emma, Cora has the dagger. If you bring him back, we're all in danger, especially Henry."

"How did she—" Emma chooses her words carefully once again. She has to protect Henry from bad news, has to stay upbeat for him. "How did she acquire that object?"

Mary Margaret is silent for a moment, then with a shaky voice she confesses, "She tricked me."

"We have to come back. If we don't—"

David's voice comes on the line. "Don't bring him back, Emma. With that dagger she controls him. There's a town full of innocent people who'll suffer if you do, and if she finds out about the beans and makes a portal, every land with magic is in danger."

Emma lowers her voice, but Neal can hear her and his knuckles whiten on the wheel. "I can't let him die."

David sounds exasperated. "He's Rumplestiltskin. Do you think he'd hesitate to let _you _die, if it suited his purpose? Or Henry? Emma, you don't even know half of the evil he's done. He's _killed_ people. And remember Ashley's baby? That wasn't the first time he's tricked a mother into giving up her child." When Emma doesn't answer, he presses, "What are you going to do?"

"We have some time before we can get back there. We'll. . . think of something. Evil doesn't win, not on our watch. I'll call you later." She hangs up. With a glance at Neal, she mutters, "We gotta talk, but after we get on board."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**A/N. I'd hoped to finally have a correct prediction, but the sneak peaks for 2.16 have shown me I guessed wrong again. Egads! But I've got this story all planned out and I think it's going to be pretty good, a balance of angst and adventure, with my favorite themes underlying the action, so I'm going to tell this tale anyway and I hope you'll come along for the ride.**

* * *

**New York, 12:52 pm**

"How do we find an invisible ship?"

Neal unsnaps his seat belt and pops his door open. "Not as hard as you'd think. Just look for the seabirds." He studies the sky, then points. "It's there." He runs around to the back of the car and pulls the door open.

"You just gonna leave the Beamer here?" Emma can't help asking; it's a Beamer, after all, even if it is Tamara's. . .Tamara, Neal's fiancée. Tamara, Neal's new love.

"As soon as we get on board, I'll call Tamara and tell her where I parked. She'll come for it. Help me get him out." Emma notices he doesn't say "my father" or "papa" or even "Rumplestiltskin."

Gold is able to walk, with their help, and they make their way down the dock. As they step hesitantly up the invisible steps to the ship, a freckled hand reaches out to them and Emma draws back in surprise. She reaches for her gun—remembers she doesn't have it—and barks, "Hook! I thought I—"

"Hook?" A freckled face pops into view. "Lady, you insult me!"

Neal, panting as he half-carries his father up the steps, makes a hasty introduction. "Emma, this is a friend of mine, Slightly. I called him and some of my old shipmates. I can't run this ship alone, and they're an experienced crew."

Emma starts to protest; the second-to-last thing they need is a bunch of strangers nosing in on their business. Neal cuts her complaint off at the pass. "They can be trusted. They know about him." He jabs his head in the direction of Gold, who's being aided down the steps by Henry and Slightly. He scowls at her scowl. "I got this, Emma. I know what I'm doing. I had about three hundred years of living before I got to this world."

That doesn't make Emma feel better. In fact, it makes her stomach churn as she realizes she, at age 18, slept with a 300-year-old. Repeatedly. And enjoyed it. She takes small comfort in wondering whether Tamara ever thinks the same thought.

**Storybrooke 1:03 pm**

Regina shows her mother where the bathroom is and explains how the plumbing works. It's a bother to have to explain everything, but at the same time, it serves as a less-than-subtle reminder to Cora that this is Regina's world and Cora would do well to remember she's just a guest here. Still, Cora turns up her nose. "You do _that_ inside your house?!" She likes the bath tub, though, and she takes a nice long soak, with bubbles. She takes the dagger into the bathroom with her and locks the door behind her.

Regina growls to find she's been locked out like some common handmaid. Well, just let mommy dearest try to find the towels on her own.

**Jolly Roger 1:03 pm**

_I have no interest in talking to you._

Gold's mind is messing with him. It wants to wander, sometimes into brightly lit rooms where moments from the past wait to suck him in and take him prisoner, sometimes into nothingness. The latter is especially appealing. Since he has no idea what ingredients Hook used in the poison, he isn't sure whether he should fight to remain in the present—staying clear-headed apparently being too much of a challenge—or allow his mind to retreat from the pain. He figures he _could_ permit himself to rest; he trusts Emma and Bae to take care of him, especially Emma, who has no choice but to do the right thing, not with the blood of both Prince David and Queen Snow coursing through her veins. Poor kid, born to be good. At least she got to play on the other side of the fence for a little while. Destiny. What a bitch.

He's having trouble focusing on the voices right now. Sometimes he can hear everything clearly, even manage to make sounds that resemble words, but at the moment there's a disconnect between his body and his brain, and he has to allow others to do the work, drag him down into the holds of this stinking ship—it smells like Hook! Good gods, they're taking him to the captain's quarters. He tries to complain: he'd just as soon be dumped in the galley as be deposited on Hook's bed in Hook's private room. At least Henry has the presence of mind to tear off Hook's blankets and pillow, and re-make the bed with Bae's.

Henry. Sharp kid for an eleven-year-old. People smart. Bae was smart at age eleven, but street smart. Bae had kind of a distain for people, given how the villagers treated him and his father. Bae was more at home running around the fields with the sheep and the dogs and the cattle, fending off wolves with his pocketful of rocks. He could hit a wolf smack between the eyes from 100 yards, that one. David, back when he was a raw kid running around his own fields, was like that. Made it harder for Rumple to take him away from Ruth. He'd had to get a bit sloshed before he could bring himself to present that deal, even though it was for the best, wasn't it? For everyone concerned. If not for that deal, David would never have become a prince, never have found his true calling as a dragon fighter and true love to a queen. If not for that deal, the savior wouldn't have been born, nor Henry.

Henry. Sharp kid. _The Kid Who Killed Me_. Should be the title of one of those pulp westerns that Gold likes to pluck off the rack in Clark's store and hide under his other purchases. Gold always glares at Clark as the westerns are being rung up: go on, I dare you to rat me out, you yellow-bellied varmint. Your rent'll jump faster than Wyatt Earp's six-shooter, you sidewinder.

Gold likes his westerns.

He reminds himself he doesn't like Henry. Why was that again? It's hard to focus; thoughts slither by him like rattlers; they shake their tails to get his attention and then they slither away before he can shoot them. Oh yeah. The seer's prediction. Henry the Undoer. Henry who has killed the immortal Rumplestiltskin. He'll be remembered in song and legend for that, generations from now. If the Dark One doesn't kill him first.

But the Boy Who Killed Me is bringing him water. Has pulled up a creaky chair from Hook's creaky, map-covered desk. Is sitting beside him, holding his hand, saying something he can't hear, while the adults scurry about, the mangy curs.

Hatred. That's a good thing to focus on. It stirs the blood. Hate Henry. Hate Hook. Hate Cora. Hate Regina—always a good fall-back plan: blame Regina. Hate the Charmings and their dimples and their squeaky clean ways—they probably floss after every meal. Hate Bae, because if Bae had done what he was supposed to—if he'd followed the script that Rumple had been writing into their destiny for three hundred years—they would've caught the first flight out of JFK and they'd be eating airplane peanuts right now, with Hook standing helplessly in that dingy apartment entranceway, whining and whimpering because his prey had escaped. If Bae had done what he was supposed to. Like that damn puppet did (_I guess all the lying can stop, Papa. I forgive you, Papa._)

Hate that puppet, for stealing the apology that belonged to Bae. Even more, hate the puppet for his lie that built Rumple's hope for forgiveness.

_Get out my apartment!_

Hate the savior, that she saved everyone else but not Belle and not Rumple.

**Storybrooke 1:22 pm**

Regina has just finished loading the dishwasher when a screech nearly causes her to drop a glass. She runs to the bathroom and raps on the door. "Mother? Are you all right? Did you fall?"

When there's no immediate answer, Regina slaps her hand against the door to increase the sound. "Mother?" A horrid thought flashes into her mind: what if Cora's had a heart attack or a stroke? Only the Dark One is immortal, and Cora (though she's never revealed her age) must be pushing 200; Regina herself is 103. Or thereabouts; it's hard to keep track after the first hundred years. If Cora dies, Regina will be alone and even farther from Henry than before. Even more ostracized. "Mother?"

The door finally squeaks open. Cora's found the towels—she's wrapped her hair in one—and Regina's favorite bathrobe. Regina bites her lip to keep from complaining, but being an only child she's never been willing to share her belongings, and besides, a robe is such a personal thing, something you wear against your naked body. Eew.

"I'm fine," Cora assures her, "but Rumplestiltskin is not." She holds the dagger in both hands and lifts it for Regina to see.

Regina looks but doesn't understand and says so.

Cora points at the engraved name, focusing on the "R." Or what would have been the "R"—it's now fading away.

"What does it mean, Mother?"

"He's dying."

"What do we do?"

"Wherever he is, he'll come running back, if he can, to access his magic, to save himself." Cora stares thoughtfully at the dagger. There's a faraway look in her eyes that stirs Regina's curiosity. . . a dance of hatred and longing that Regina recognizes in herself. Perhaps when the battle is won, they will sit and talk over a pitcher of Bloody Marys, and perhaps Regina will learn the specifics of the long and complex relationship between her mother and their common mentor.

Cora slips the dagger into the robe's pocket and brushes past Regina. She sashays into Regina's bedroom as though it's her own, seats herself so gracefully on the cushioned bench at Regina's vanity table, picks up Regina's hairbrush, unwraps Regina's towel and brushes out her hair.

Regina cringes. But as she watches her mother in the mirror becoming more beautiful by the minute, she can't but admire the woman she's looked up to all her life. So graceful and feminine: "She doesn't walk, she floats," Regina's father would gush, and every male, be he liveryman or nobleman, would drool as the duchess floated by, even when her face was lined with age. When she was small, Regina would beg Cora, "Teach me to walk pretty like you," but Cora would toss her head and laugh a ladylike tinkling laugh. "Oh, darling, grace is something a woman is born with. But if you'll give up your smelly horses, I will try to teach you the mechanics of it."

Regina chose the horses.

"What do we do, Mother? Do we go after him, drag him back here and make him well again?"

Cora sighs as though pained by the ignorant inquiry. "Have you forgotten already? If we leave Storybrooke, we become as powerless as he is now."

Regina clamps her mouth shut. She won't risk the ridicule of asking another question.

"No." The hairbrush moves slowly through Cora's damp hair. Hypnotized just as she was a child, Regina can't resist: she removes the hairbrush from Cora's soft white hand and takes on the task herself. Cora leans back in bliss. "Ah, thank you, darling. You've always been my best hairdresser."

Hairdresser. Regina grinds her teeth. _She_'s the queen, not Cora. This is _her _house, _her _town, _her_ life that Cora has moved right in on. Hairdresser!

"This is just a little set-back requiring a change in plans. For the best anyway, I'm sure; Rumple is such a mule-headed old thing, controlling him would be more work than it's worth. No, we watch and wait, as we have been, and as soon as he walks—or is carried-into town. . . ." Cora fishes the dagger from Regina's pocket in Regina's robe. "As soon as he returns and takes back his magic, I'll know it. I know the vibrations of his magic like I know my own. And as soon as he's reclaimed his powers, we'll take them from him."

"Kill him," Regina says plainly.

"If you must be so crass about it. Yes, that's the way one takes the Dark One's powers."

"And become a hideous monster. It's only here that he looks human, Mother."

"Don't you think I know that?" Cora snaps. "But with his magic, a glamour will be effortless to retain. Why he never would do that for himself, back in the old land, is beyond me." She shudders. "Who would willingly walk around looking like _that_?"

Regina stops brushing. "Which one of us, Mother, will kill him?" Regina is actually asking, Which one of us will take all that power for herself?

Cora smiles at her through the mirror and pats her hand—not an effort to comfort, but a signal to resume the hair brushing. But Regina makes her wait, just as Cora makes her wait for an answer. Cora's tone is self-sacrificing. "I shall. After all, I've lived my life. You're much too young, my dear, to look so hideous."

Regina begins to brush again. "What if he doesn't come back? What if he dies out there?"

Cora laughs. "He won't. I've known him a very long time, Regina, a very long time. If you knew him as I do, you wouldn't have asked that question." There! Cora must compete against Regina even in this, her close knowledge of the Dark One. She speaks a tone a mother usually uses on a four-year-old. "There is only one thing the Dark One truly cares about, and that's himself. And there is one motivation that drives him: his own welfare. Whatever tricks or threats or bribes it takes, he'll make it back here, and then you'll distract him while I kill him."

She holds the dagger up to the sunlight pouring in through the windows in the mansion that Regina designed and still owns. Her fingernail taps on the engraved name: now the "U" is gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Jolly Roger 1:29 pm**

As his five shipmates scurry about, preparing the ship to sail, Bae ducks down below deck in search of the map that had directed Hook here. It's on top of the desk; Hook had no reason to hide it, never expecting his vessel to be hijacked. Grabbing the map, Bae pauses just long enough to ask, "How're you feeling now?"

Gold squints at him through half-closed eyes. "You're not fooling me, boy. You want to say it, so say it."

Bae's mouth twitches between a scowl and a grin. "Papa."

"Much better now, son." But his body jerks once before he can gain control of it.

Bae occupies himself with the map. "Looks like it's a short trip. About an hour." He starts up the stairs but Gold calls to him.

"You know this ship, don't you? How?"

"Long story. I'll tell it after you've got that antidote in your system."

"I'll hold you to that promise." They both know what he's really saying is _I promise to live long enough to hear your story_.

In another five minutes the ship sets sail.

**Storybrooke 1:29 pm**

"I'll wear it loose now," Cora says when Regina begins to pin up the mound of mahogany-and-gray hair. "I like the styles the women here are using. In fact, I saw something in a shop window yesterday that looked quite comfortable and yet feminine. This." Cora conjures a stylish pantsuit and lays it out on Regina's bed. Regina wonders if it's a copy or if Cora has stolen it from Modern Fashions.

Regina notices that Cora's produced only outer garments, so she conjures some suitable lingerie for her mother: an underwire bra, sure to irritate Cora's tender skin, and a pair of gray granny panties. Regina permits herself a quick smirk as Cora struggles to get into the bra—and then Regina notices that Cora has simply dropped the damp bathrobe onto the bedroom floor beside the bed, as though she expects a maid to tidy up behind her. Regina wheels about to pick up the robe and hang it on a hook in the closet.

"We really must take some of these marvelous inventions with us when we leave this village," Cora muses. "The carriages—so much cleaner than horses! And the microwave and the coffee maker and the—"

"Leave?" Regina interrupts.

Cora scoffs. "Well, yes, dear. Once we have Henry and your enemies are vanquished, surely you won't want to stay in this land. You were meant to be a queen of a great nation, not the ruler of some backwater village. With all the powers I'll have, we may not need beans to create a portal; I'm sure I'll be able to create one myself. And then the whole world will be ours. We'll start with the Enchanted Forest, and one by one we will conquer the other magic realms, and you will be queen of—everything!"

Queen of nothing, more like, Regina realizes; wherever they go, Regina may be the one wearing the crown but Cora will be the ruler behind the velvet curtain. Regina, and Henry after her, can be no more than puppets to the new Dark One.

Unless, perhaps in the moments of confusion as the dark curse transfers from Rumple to Cora, Regina were to seize the dagger. . . .

Ah, Mother, Regina reflects. You should be proud of your little girl.

**Jolly Roger 1:39 pm**

Snow can't bear the not knowing. Worse, she can't bear the guilt. Snow phones her daughter.

"Can't hear you," Emma shouts into the phone. "We're at sea. We'll have to text." And she shoots off a text message to reiterate the point.

_Where are you_? Snow texts back.

One of these days when they're all just sitting around drinking cocoa on a rainy afternoon, Emma really must teach Snow to abbreviate. It would save so much time. _Hook's ship. Leaving NY. ETA 1 hr._

There's panic in the text as Snow fires back: _Where's Hook?_

_Locked up. Will xpln latr. _Then Emma figures out the real import of the question and adds _We're safe. Don't worry._

_Everyone out looking for R & C. If we catch them, you can bring him in._

Emma's tempted to retort: A) how are they going to find two witches who can make themselves invisible, transport themselves, transform themselves into something or someone else? And B) if by some miracle the witches are captured, how are they to be confined? But Snow and David are doing their best and right now, this is the only hope they have.

Or is it?

_Wait a sec_. Emma storms down the stairs to Hook's cabin. At the last step she brings herself up short, not by the sight of a dying man whose chest is turning orange, the skin bubbling and curdling, but by the smell—of Hook. Salty, of course, but also spicy and teasingly masculine.

Emma gathers her wits, shakes her head to clear her nose. "Henry, go up top."

"Why?" the boy protests. This is an awful test for him. He's bouncing around today between childhood and manhood, and right now he's acting a bit like a petulant eleven-year-old. "Grandpa needs me."

"I need to talk to him alone." Emma's blunt; there's no time to massage egos.

"You mean, you think I'm too young to hear what you're going to say."

"Yes."

Gold licks his chapped lips and bails them out by sending Henry on a mission. "Do as your mother says, Henry. While you're at it, do me a favor: tell your father don't sail into port. We need to stay at least five miles beyond Storybrooke, out of the range of magic."

Casting Emma a dirty look, but giving her props for her honesty, Henry leaves to fulfill his mission.

Emma wastes no time on niceties. "I've got Mary Margaret on the phone. They're out looking for Regina and Cora. If they can catch them, we're okay. Any ideas where to look, beyond the obvious? Does she have any secret places, retreats? Would she go to that cabin of yours?"

"She doesn't know it exists. She hates the woods, hates getting dirty. Cora too; the woods remind her of her blue-collar past."

"That eliminates the west. It's about ten miles from City Hall to the town line going north, eight miles going south, lot of ground to cover. Obviously they're not going to hide in the heavily populated parts of town. Does she have second home somewhere? A houseboat or something? A secret lover?"

"The stables." Then Gold shakes his head. "But Cora would never go there."

"A friend?"

Gold's heart is beating irregularly; it's difficult to think logically. "Not since Sidney disappeared. But now that his apartment is empty, she could have gone there."

"Disappeared? I thought he just got another job someplace and—oh, yeah." Emma suddenly realizes Sidney could not have left town. "Guess we got another missing person case I'll need to look into. Funny nobody's reported him gone."

"Jefferson," Gold guesses. "Not a friend, but Regina uses him from time to time." He mutters under his labored breath, "As I have."

Emma texts these guesses to Snow, who relays them to the search party. "Any other guesses?"

Gold's mouth moves somewhere between a grin and a grimace. "Why don't we flush her down?"

"Do you mean 'flush her out'?"

But instead of answering, he shifts onto his side and reaches for his backside.

Emma thinks this is a strange time to be correcting a wedgie, but the way the man's hand is trembling, he's going to need some help with it. She sits on the narrow bed. "You, uh, want me to, uh?"

"My phone. I can't reach it."

"Oh, sure." Gingerly she pursues the lump in his left back pocket and sighs in relief when the object she retrieves on the first try proves to be a phone. She hands it to him and he falls onto his back as he flips it open and scrolls through the contacts. "You have her number."

"Indeed I do. I've had Regina's number for a very long time." His fingers jab at the keys as his eyes fog over. He wonders if he'll lose his vision first, then perhaps his hearing and his speech.

"Wait," Emma stays his hand. "She can track your location if she knows your phone's IP address."

"I'm willing to gamble that she doesn't know that."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't. Besides, there's nothing she can do to us here. No magic and no contacts in the area." He dials and clears his throat, forcing strength into his voice as the phone rings and rings.

"Ah, Rumple. How nice of you to call. Having a wonderful vacation?"

"Regina. Yes, wonderful. The museums, the theatre, the parks, the zoo, all quite impressive. You really must visit sometime."

She chuckles humorlessly. "I'll wait for your home movies, thank you just the same. Rumple, dear, it seems the phone reception is poor today: your voice is so weak I can barely hear you. Or is that because of your sudden illness? Mother and I extend our hardiest get-well wishes, by the way."

"Sudden illness? I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"You men and your macho attitudes," Regina scoffs. "There's no shame in admitting to a bout of the flu or a cold or. . . or a sudden case of dying."

He manages a convincing derisive laugh. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Oh come now, Rumple, you needn't hide your weaknesses from me. I know them all already. See?"

His phone issues a quick beep and he holds it away from his ear to see the screen. A photo appears in the tiny monitor. His face falls as he turns the phone around for Emma to see: it's his dagger, but the first three letters of his name have faded away.

Emma covers her mouth.

He draws in a cleansing breath before resuming his conversation. "Ah, so that's where that pesky knife got off to. Quite the toy you have there, Regina. But as I'm sure you're aware, useless. Not even sharp enough to slice bread."

"Useless for now. But as soon as you return to Storybrooke. . . . How soon will you be returning to Storybrooke, dear? Mother and I do miss you and Emma."

"And Henry," he adds. "I've discovered what these Americans say is actually true: vacations really do bring family together."

"So you've reunited with your son, then."

"As expected, but I've also discovered I have family I wasn't even aware of, and all this time, living just a few blocks away from me."

"What are you talking about, Rumple?" She's nervous now; he has her on the ropes, a tiny payback for the theft of his dagger.

"Not telling. Not just yet, anyway. Perhaps after my return we'll meet at Granny's for one big happy family reunion. By the way, dear, the reason I called—I do seem to have come down with a bug of some sort; you're right. Probably those oysters we had last night. Anyway, I was hoping you'd do a small favor for me."

"Why certainly, Rumple." Sarcasm is laced through every letter of each word in her reply. "I always have time for you."

"In the back of my shop, in the cupboard nearest the back door, you'll find an ornamental box. Belonged to an apothecary from Xi Jen. In this box is a vial containing a blue liquid. It's a concoction I use from time to time when my stomach acts up; the only thing that seems to work for me. If you could get it for me and overnight it to my hotel, I would be most appreciative. I would owe you a favor," he adds meaningfully.

"I would be happy to. Where is your hotel?"

"The Downtown Hilton, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania."

"I'll send it out this afternoon."

"I wouldn't have troubled you, interrupting your own family reunion, but before I left I placed a protection spell on my shop, you see, so you're the only one who can break through it."

"I see."

"Foolish of me, I suppose, but after the number of break-ins I've experienced recently, I thought it best to take precautions."

"No problem, Rumple. I'm glad to do it."

"Thank you, dear. I'll look forward to receiving that package. And Henry sends his regards. I'd let you talk to him but my son took him and Emma to a place called—what was it again? Yankee Stadium? Thank you again, darling. See you soon."

He hangs up and struggles to replace the phone in his pocket; Emma guides his hand. And then he promptly leans over the side of the bed and vomits into Hook's trunk.

"Good thing Hook won't be needing those clothes soon," Emma says dryly. "Was that a comment on your conversation with Regina or are you feeling worse?" She hands him a cup of water to rinse his mouth.

"Text Snow. Tell them to get to my shop. They'll have to wait at the back door until Regina breaks the protection spell."

"You think Regina really will go there?" Even as she speaks, Emma's fingers are typing. He doesn't understand the multi-tasking capabilities of this younger generation.

"It's our best shot. I think she's going to wonder if that vial really does contain the medication I need to save myself, and she won't be able to rest until she knows for sure."

"Does it?"

"Not that vial. Tell Snow that while the others are fighting Regina and Cora, she should to look in display case that my cash register sits on. Look for the Mickey Mouse phone. The bottom screws open; inside she'll find another vial." He presses a forearm against his burning eyes. "That's the one."

Emma's still typing. "And the other vial? The one you told Regina about?"

He grins weakly. "I'm hoping she'll open it. Tell Snow if Regina doesn't open the vial, she should—and immediately toss its contents on Regina and Cora."

"Why, what is it?"

"Squid ink."

"Gold, you are one smart cookie." Emma slaps his leg, then hastily apologizes for the pain.

"This is what they call 'an ambush.' You just need to read some westerns, Emma."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

**Jolly Roger 1:54 pm**

Above deck, the Lost Boys are enjoying the taste of adventure and the freedom of the seas (even if they aren't exactly open). Bae half-listens as Nibs, Curly, the Twins and Slightly catch up, comparing notes on their careers, their spouses, their cars and their ongoing battle with middle-age spread. They pass a bottle, which Bae declines, and Slightly claps a hand to Bae's shoulder. "We'll get him there in time, Petey. We got a good wind and a good crew."

Bae nods tightly, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

Below deck, Emma and Gold wait for a phone to ring: hers, his or even Henry's; it doesn't matter as long as Snow or David is on the other end. Emma's given up the struggle to keep Henry away; he sits now beside the cot, dabbing Gold's sweating face with a damp cloth, pulling the blanket up when Gold shivers. Emma paces and stares at her phone.

"Why does she want you to die, Grandpa?" Henry asks.

Emma stops her pacing and cautions, "Henry, that's not. . . appropriate—"

"Death seldom is." Gold's teeth chatter as a wave of nausea passes through him. When he gains control of body again, he corrects, "Not 'she'; 'they.' Both Regina and Cora would prefer me out of the way, permanently. A great many other people would as well. As you yourself have said, Henry, I'm evil. Not to be trusted."

Henry hangs his head. "I'm sorry I said that."

"Don't be sorry for speaking the truth as you see it. When you get older, though, you'll learn that everyone has some good and some evil in them. For most people, it's a matter of choice which aspect of themselves they'll listen to. Every day brings a new choice."

"And a chance to change?"

"For most." Gold settles deeper into Bae's pillow.

"What about the others?"

"Some are overtaken by madness or a curse; they have no choice. Some are so deeply entrenched in evil—or in good—that they can't change, no matter how hard they try."

Henry dares to ask the question his mother longs to hear answered. "Gramps and Grandma Nolan are the kind that can't change from being good, aren't they? Which kind are you, Grandpa?"

"One of a kind, yet to be determined."

**Storybrooke 1:54 pm**

They look like sisters in their black pantsuits and matching magic. In tandem—or so it would appear to an outsider, but deep down Regina knows they're actually competing—they blast through Gold's protection spell. As Regina pushes the door open, avoiding touching the now heated knob, Cora sighs in satisfaction and wiggles her fingers. "That was a pleasant exercise. Are you ready for the main event, darling?"

"After you, Mother." Regina permits Cora to enter first. She finds apropos one of many quirky folk sayings from this world: Age before beauty. Regina steps over the threshold and flips the light switch.

Regina heads purposefully for the workroom, but Cora remains in the store. Every so often she exclaims over some object she recognizes. As Regina beelines for the cupboard Gold told her to search, Cora wonders aloud how Rumple found the time to gather this large, diverse collection in the weeks before the curse, and how he managed to transport it all to Storybrooke, and at a time when he had no memory of his Enchanted Forest past.

As Regina opens the cupboard, Cora's tone suddenly changes to anger: "How dare he! This is _mine_!"

Regina has no opportunity to inquire into the nature of the purloined object, because the back door flies open, compliments of David's foot, and the acting sheriff, his wife and the deputy burst in, weapons blazing: a sword for David, a bow for Snow, and a police revolver for Grumpy. Simultaneously, the remaining dwarves (Tom Clark excluded, but replaced by Anton the former giant) rush the front of the store with weapons ranging from pickaxes and shovels to a crossbow borrowed from Granny.

"You have one chance to surrender, Regina," David barks.

Regina is more embarrassed than alarmed: they've caught her bending over, their first view of her being her derriere.

"Time's up," David decides.

Regina yawns—delicately, behind her hand—then with a single blow sends all three intruders flying in different directions. Snow's bow cracks and David's sword clatters to the floor. Grumpy scrambles to his feet and without warning fires his revolver, but the bullets stop in mid-air and drop like cold lead to the floor. Another flick of her hand and Grumpy smashes into Gold's worktable. The bullheaded dwarf hauls himself to his feet again, and he and David rush Regina from opposite directions.

But it's an ambush of which Gold would be proud, for while Regina's preoccupied with the men, Snow sneaks in behind her and raids the cupboard. She extracts the blue vial from its jewel box and starts to work the stopper out—

And for her pains receives a slap of magic from Cora, who's already dispatched her would-be arresters.

Cora sighs as she surveys the unconscious. "It would be so much easier to dispose of them all now."

"No," Regina blurts. "I'll never win Henry back if you do."

Cora steps over Grumpy, kneels for a moment to pet David's blond hair. "So pretty. Remind me, just before I kill him, to play with him a little."

Regina looks with longing at Snow's inert body. Finally she steps over it. "Soon enough, I suppose," she mutters.

"Did you get the medication Rumple described?"

Regina bends from the waist to examine the floor beside Snow—and then as Cora clicks her tongue, remembers how unladylike this posture is and kneels instead. She has to push Snow aside to find what she's looking for: shards of glass and a small pool of blue liquid soaking into Snow's blouse. "She saved us the trouble."

"Mission accomplished." Cora pats her mussed hair back into place. "And the prognosis for our patient: DOA."

Regina mumbles, "You were watching television last night, weren't you?" She conjures a vial identical to the broken one and slips it into her jacket.

**Jolly Roger 1:59 pm**

One of these days, these crazy people are going to push her over the edge, yes, right over the edge, Emma thinks. How in the burning halls of Hell did she fall in with this bunch, anyway? She glares at her phone, willing it to ring.

In the rhythmic creaking, swaying of the ship, in the dankness of its bowels, Gold drifts. Henry looks back and forth from Emma to Gold; he isn't certain if Gold should be allowed to sleep, but he realizes Emma doesn't know either so he doesn't ask. He sits on the creaky chair and frets.

Gold wanders into one of the bright, airy rooms of his mind. _His red cloak hangs loosely about his shoulders and his ankle doesn't ache, so he knows he's turned back into the version of himself he thinks of as Rumplestiltskin III. Under his boots is dirt; above him, blue sky; behind him, four straw-and-clay huts and a stone cottage, the latter belonging to him. The slight wind carries the scent of cook fires, stews, sheep and dung. Standing beside him is shaggy-haired, puppy-eyed Bae. Not the tall, hard-edged Bae who threw him out, but the Bae who still looks up to him a little and loves him a lot._

_He is speaking to a man driving a hay cart. "Well, I suppose it won't happen again."_

_Bae speaks up for the carter. "It won't." _

"_What's that?" the Dark One's dancing in excitement; he's going to get to come out and play now. Rumple indicates his son's scraped knee._

_The carter starts to apologize but Rumple turns the situation over to the Dark One. As Bae begs for the carter's life, with a small audience listening in, the Dark One rearranges the carter's DNA, transforming him into a snail. The Dark One lifts his heavy boot and there's a satisfying crunch as the child pleads for mercy. _

_The Dark One is bored already. He slinks back to the corner of Rumple's brain in which he's claimed residency and waits for the next opportunity for a little excitement. He's occupied this brain less than a week and although he senses incredible potential here, he's got to get Rumple out of this one-horse town. _

_Rumple feels the eyes of his neighbors upon his back. He turns quickly and they hastily pretend to look away. Vaguely he recalls something he heard somewhere, perhaps a line from a poem: "And now abide hate, magic and fear, but the greatest of these is fear." Oh he's got it, all right: not just the hate and the magic, but the fear. Already he's aware of the law of limited resources that all mages must obey: when you take from the well of magic, you must replenish in equal or greater worth. As long as he can arouse this much fear with such a tiny expenditure of magic, staying within the law will be no problem. Yeah, he's got this thing down pat._

_He leads the boy inside to tend his wound. But the boy waves away the offer of healing magic, and instead he asks, "Which one are you, Papa?"_

**Jolly Roger 2:01 pm**

Emma's phone rings. She reads the text, sends a reply, reads the reply to her reply. Closing the phone, she clears her throat. "Uhm, Gold?"

He pries his eyes open. Through the slits she can see a glimmer of tears. It makes it all the harder to say what she has to say. "Regina and Cora got away."

"And the squid ink?"

Emma takes a moment before answering. "The vial broke."

Gold allows his head to fall back on the pillow (Bae's pillow; it smells of aftershave and hot dogs and pizza and car fumes—it smells like New York).

The bright little rooms in his mind are beckoning again, promising retreat from the pain and the worry. He finds himself drawn to one, and his heart aches so because it's the kitchen of the Dark Castle, and it smells of baking bread and roasting pheasant, and stirring a bubbling sauce on the stove is a young woman in a robin's egg blue dress. He wants so to go in, slip his arm around her waist, kiss the nape of her neck, stay there forever. But he's not allowed; for all his crimes against this woman, Destiny will not permit him to join her in eternity. The cruel bitch will make him pay, over and over again, tantalizing him with an open door but refusing him admittance.

Lady Belle and Belle French forgave him—and forgave and forgave him. Lady Destiny forgives no one.

Aw hell. If he were in Destiny's shoes, he'd probably do the same. He promised to protect Belle, and what did he do? He followed his own selfish, fear-driven path, dragging her along for the ride, barely listening when she needed to talk, barely talking when she needed to be taught. Just hours after her release from the asylum, he threw her out again—again, providing no money, no references, no alternate home, not even an explanation of where they were and how to survive here. When she needed him to take care of her in her amnesiac state—a condition that was his fault from top to bottom—he freaked her out and then, in patented coward fashion, he ran out of town, leaving her once again to fend for herself when she couldn't even say who her self was.

And now he's dying on her. What a son of a bitch.

"Gold?" Emma gives his shoulder a shake. "Is there any more squid ink? Fairy dust?" When he doesn't respond she shakes him harder. "Gold? Where would Regina go?"

He jerks awake. "Belle!"

"What?"

He waves wildly at the phone in her hand. "Tell them—the hospital! Belle!"

"Oh my god," Emma moans, and her fingers fly across the tiny keyboard.

**Storybrooke 2:05 pm**

Regina whisks them to Sidney's empty apartment. It's stuffy and dank, and the bowl of fruit on the dining table rotted long ago and has become a haven for spiders and cockroaches. With a disdainful swish of her hand, Regina airs out the place.

"Where are we?" Cora rolls her finger through the layer of dust on the wet bar. "And why are we here?"

"We're here for a news report. This is the home of an old friend," Regina has no interest in explaining her relationship with Sidney to her mother. "No one will think to look for us here. No one thinks of him."

"He needs a maid."

Regina snaps, "He's deceased, Mother. Now if you don't mind, I'd like a moment to gather information."

A mirror in an antique frame hangs just to the left of the front door. Regina walks to it and stares. Mirror magic is one of her specialties; when she had first apprenticed with Rumplestiltskin, she specifically asked to develop skills that her mother had not. Rumple had steepled his fingers, well pleased with the request, and when she had conquered the basics and had fortified her arsenal with the common weapons—fireballs, lightning, cyclones, ice—she delved deep into mirror magic. The day she managed a perform a stunt with mirrors that Rumple himself could not—using the mirror to foresee the future—she pronounced her apprenticeship over and walked away from him.

The split proved temporary, of course. She's leaned on him far more than anyone else in all the years of their acquaintanceship. Strange to say, he's been the steadiest influence in her life. At the basis of the revulsion and rivalry they've come to feel for each other is a bizarre kind of love not unlike that she feels for Cora.

Now she's asking the mirror to show her what her life will be without him.

"What do you see, darling?" Cora comes up behind her.

She's not about to answer honestly. But just in case Cora has studied mirrorology during her exile, Regina hastily orders Sidney's mirror to change its focus. "The two idiots, the dog, the cricket, the midgets—they've resumed their door-to-door witch hunt."

"All that for little old us?" Cora sounds flattered. "How unsubtle. I suppose they'll be using battering rams next."

"And a waste of time." Regina glances over her shoulder. "Are you ready to leave, Mother?"

Cora shrugs. "Why? Let them come. We'll drop kettles of boiling tar on them. An oldie but a goodie." She enters lecture mode. "You mustn't let them think they can get the better of you, Regina. Not for a single moment. We decide when and where we will go, not them."

Regina tosses her head, patting down a stray lock. "I'm way ahead of you, Mother. I've already decided when and where. It's now and it's to room 302 in the hospital."

"Why? What's there?"

"The Dark One's heart."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

**Jolly Roger 2:07 pm**

Gold is doing something he's never done, not as an abandoned child, not as the village coward, not as the pawnbroker and certainly not as the Dark One: he's praying. There are a whole lot of people he ought to be praying for, but he's evil, so he's selfish: he's praying for Belle.

He doesn't know to whom he's praying, but he's always suspected—or at least hoped—despite lack of evidence, that there's some sort of wisdom who's got Destiny under control. Magic must have come from somewhere, yes? It's far too complex and intricate to have just sprung up out of the random collision of energies. Magic has laws; he's seen what's happened when those laws are violated: Prince Thomas' disappearance, for example. If there are laws, there must be a lawmaker and a law enforcer.

Of course, if he's right in this theory, he's in a hell of a lot of trouble.

**Storybrooke 2:07 pm**

"_This_ is what the mighty Dark One takes to bed these days?" Cora leans over the sleeping Belle and continues, despite Regina's attempts to shush her. "This common field mouse? Barely old enough for her first brassiere, I'd wager." Cora clicks her tongue. "In the old days, when he was Rumplestiltskin, he required a _woman_." She flicks a finger, locking the door, then folds her arms as she evaluates Belle. "Barely qualifies as pretty. A man of his wealth and stature should be paired with a woman of experience and sophistication." Then her face brightens as a new idea occurs to her. "Ah, I see: it was your doing, Regina. You emasculated him when you turned him into Gold, didn't you? Quite clever, my girl."

Regina ignores the compliment. "Let's get to work. The dagger, Mother?"

**Jolly Roger 2:08 pm**

Gold is in the Dark Castle again. _It's truly dark, and cold, devoid of sunlight and gardens; those would come a century later, with Belle. He's slumped in a wooden chair at a dining table that's meant to seat 20, in a great hall that's meant to serve a king's court, and that makes him feel small._

_There is nothing in the universe like him. He isn't human but neither is he animal; he is one of a kind, and therefore he has no yardstick to measure himself by, no confidant to consult with, no potential mate. All he has to go on is what was written by or about his predecessors, and although his library contains sixty-seven books about the Dark One, not to mention a few hundred that include a paragraph or a chapter, not one book mentions anything about a Dark One having a wife, a child or a friend. Or for that matter, desiring one. _

_So apparently Rumplestiltskin wouldn't even fit in among his predecessors. He truly is one of a kind, for, from time to time, the yearning comes upon him and he craves company: chess pals, drinking buddies, anybody._

_A lover._

_And so from time to time he takes interest in a life, nurturing it from afar with small, anonymous gifts of magic for which he pays the price, or small, ordinary gifts: a cloak, a book, a flute, a bottle of wine. And when that isn't enough to satisfy him—when the longing for conversation and touch damn near drive him crazy—he takes in an apprentice, experienced mages who only wish to expand their skills. . . and who understand the loneliness of being different, though to a much lesser degree, for they are human, not alien like him. They stay in his castle for a week, perhaps a month, and when they leave he tells himself he's glad to be rid of them, such an inconvenience it is to share his home and his time. Occasionally men without magic shout at the castle gate until he comes out, and they bargain, beg or threaten for magic; he always drives them away with a fearsome display of power, to discourage them from returning. _

_But once, it was different, completely different. _

_There had been a severe thunderstorm the night before, washing out roads and bridges, uprooting trees, so Nature herself when she visited at the castle windows appeared bedraggled and worn from lack of sleep. When Rumplestiltskin strolled his grounds to survey the damage, his ears, always sensitive to the siren call of a deal in the offing, were assaulted by the cry of a wet cat. The lord of the manor strode to his gate and tore it open—with magic of course: the Dark One must not be seen performing manual labor—to discover not a cat at all, but an infant, a red-faced, kicking thing that stank of milk, stale spit-up and. . . the stuff often found in the britches of an infant. _

_This infant was not alone. It was cradled in the thin arms of a storm-bedraggled young woman. _

_He confronted her with a growl. "The Dark One gives no alms to the poor! Begone now, find a church door for your begging."_

_The woman's chin thrust up. "I am no beggar, sir! I am a woman of magic. I have been informed that you are in need of an apprentice and I have come to offer my services." _

_Before he could slam the gate in her face, she plowed on, laying out a deal. Did she know of the compulsion that forced the Dark One to consider all serious proposals of deals? "In return for lessons of a minimum of three hours per day, along with room and board, I will serve as your lab assistant, your cook, your housekeeper and your messenger. This arrangement will begin with a one-month trial, and if we both are satisfied, it will continue indefinitely until one or both of us find it no longer beneficial."_

"_I am not in the market for an apprentice, madam. You may go." He turned on his heel, but she grasped his coattail. _

"_Was I misinformed then? You have a pupil already?"_

"_No. I'm simply not interested." He removed her fingers from his clothing. "Nor is my castle a nursery for mewling fatherless infants."_

"_She is far from fatherless, sir." The woman pushed her body within breathing distance of his, glared up into his face. "I'll have you know this is the daughter of King Leopold the Third of the Frontlands."_

_Rumplestiltskin sniggered as he made the infant a mock bow. "Oh pardon me, Princess. I didn't recognize you in your royal robes." Then he twisted his head to peer at the woman sideways, for he knew that King Leopold had wed, no more than a month ago, the daughter of the King of the West Mountains. He smirked. "Then that would make you Queen Eva, wouldn't it?"_

_Had the woman lied to him or reddened in embarrassment, he would have sent her away without another word, but instead she flashed her teeth at him. "If you think that, you're a fool and unworthy of teaching me. Never mind my present title: the only title I wish for the moment is 'Apprentice to Rumplestiltskin.' You heard my terms. Do you wish to make a counteroffer?"_

_He wrinkled his nose; the infant had just added to the contents of her nappy. "I wish for you to be gone, and to take that odiferous object with you." He shut the gate and turned to walk away._

"_Wait!" she shouted. "I'll sweeten my offer."_

_He muttered, his hands working as if he were spinning thread. "Clearly you have nothing more to offer, madam—or is it 'miss'?"_

"_My body!"_

_He stopped in his tracks._

"_Rumplestiltskin, did you hear me? I said, I will offer my body along with my housekeeping services."_

_His feet inched sideways, but he resisted the urge to walk back to the gate._

"_It must be very lonely, being the Dark One!"_

_Now he was angry. He wheeled around and yanked the gate open, profanity flowing from his lips like water from a fountain._

_She ignored his cursing. "It's said no woman has ever come to this castle. It's said the Dark One has never walked with a woman on his arm, nor frequented a brothel. My services in your kitchen, your laboratory and your bed in exchange for lessons. One week's trial."_

"_Though I'm sure your experience has given you skills in all three parts of a house, I remain uninterested, miss."_

_Shifting the infant to one arm, she seized him to drive her point home—seized him not by the head or the hair, but by a part of his anatomy that only Milah had touched. "Remove your hand, woman." But it came out sounding like a question instead of the demand of a sorcerer. _

"_I won't leave. You may as well let me in, because I'll remain here, driving away any new business that may come your way and sullying your reputation."_

_He chuckled. "My reputation can get no darker, dearie. And you'd be doing me a favor if you drive my gate-mongers away." He looked down at his trousers. "Your hand, miss? Remove it, please, before I cut it off."_

_In reply she squeezed. Damn it, it did feel pretty good. But he needed no half-starved infant and borderline harlot under foot. She dropped her hand and he slammed the gate._

"_I'm not leaving," she shouted after him. "We're not leaving."_

_Two days later, he let her in._

**Jolly Roger 2:10 pm**

Bae joins his family in Hook's cabin. He has to give his father's foot—the good one; he remembers the ankle injury—a shake to awaken him. "In about another ten minutes we'll drop anchor, five miles out of Storybrooke like you said. We need a plan."

Emma looks to Henry and opens her mouth, preparing to send him out so the grown-ups can talk freely, but something in the boy's eyes chills her blood: there's a knowing based on long experience that certainly doesn't belong in an eleven-year-old's eyes.

"A car will be waiting for you; we need only text the coordinates. The driver works for me." Gold turns his head toward Emma. "Anything from Snow?"

But she shakes her head: there's been no text since Emma transmitted Gold's warning about the hospital. "It's only been ten minutes." In a hasty briefing she fills Bae in on the current situation.

"We don't have time to wait," Bae points out. "Call your mother."

Emma taps out a text to Snow. When no answer comes, she dashes the same message out to David. Her phone beeps promptly and she reads the reply aloud. "'In hsp pkg lot. Will go 2 3rd fl by fire excape.'"

One afternoon when there's nothing else to do, Emma will fix her father a cup of cocoa and teach him how not to abbreviate. She texts back: "Where's mom?"

"'Glds shp looking 4 something 2 use against C. Will catch up ASAP. Ideas?'"

Three heads turn to Gold, but he scowls with closed eyes. "Not for Snow."

"What do you mean, 'not for Snow'?" Bae presses.

"There is a weapon that could kill Cora, but Snow must not use it."

"David, then?" Emma suggests.

Gold shakes his head.

"Who then? Leroy? Ruby? Who?"

"Only someone as evil as Cora, or someone beyond the influence of dark magic."

Emma releases an exasperated breath. "Damn it, Gold, stop being so cryptic. What is this weapon?"

He winces. He lets them believe it's a stab of pain that he's reacting to, but it's actually emotional pain. "Something I took from Cora a long time ago."

Emma leaps to her feet and pokes Gold's chest in full knowledge that she's hurting him. "Tell me or I'm gonna grab that bad ankle of yours and twist it."

He forces his eyes open. "It's pointless. I won't permit her or anyone else to use it. There are only three people living today who could use this weapon without destroying themselves."

Emma seizes his ankle. "I'm not kidding, Gold. Tell me. You do realize, don't you, Belle's their next victim."

Bae's mouth drops open as a noticeable tear slides across his father's nose. "I know," Gold rasps.

She forgets her threat and gets up into his face. "_Why won't you tell me?_"

"Because Belle would never forgive me." He shakes his head again, his lips turning white. "Not even to save herself, not even to save me."

Bae runs his hands through his hair in frustration and Emma howls. "We're all dead then. You realize _that_, don't you? 'Cause they're not stopping with Belle."

Bae intervenes. "Who are the three, Papa?"

Gold's mind is slipping gears. He fights to stay focused. "What?"

"The three." Bae sits down on the edge of the bed. "You said there are three who can use this weapon safely."

Gold reaches toward the cup in Henry's hands, but his own hands are unsteady and Henry has to guide the cup for him. He takes a long drink, then dry-heaves over the edge of the bed; there's nothing left in his stomach.

"Who are the three, Papa?"

Gold makes fists to stop his hands from shaking. "Me. Regina."

"The third?" Emma demands. "Who's the third?"

No power on earth will force Gold to reveal the answer.

But someone else does it for him. "Me."

Emma and Bae gape in amazement at their son.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

**A/N. I worked on chapters 5 and 6 frantically to beat the broadcast of "Miller's Daughter." I made it! Now to see if I guessed right on any plot points.**

* * *

_Cora learns quickly and works hard. In the beginning he thinks she will be the one to cast the Final Curse for him; she has the talent, and she certainly has the temperament. He soon finds, however, she's too cold-blooded to be controlled. _

_Cora keeps up her end of the bargain, for she understands the laws of magic and realizes her own powers can be stripped if she fails to pay her debt. She is an adequate housekeeper and a tolerable cook. Cora works hard at the lovemaking too, and accepts instruction in that regard, but to her it is no more meaningful or entertaining than scubbing the pots and pans, and so, gradually, it becomes just another job to him too, a task that must be done to fulfill the terms of the contract._

_She's a lousy mother. She leaves the baby unattended in the east wing while she's cleaning the west wing. She loses herself in the books he loans to her for study and she forgets to feed the baby. She practices her lessons into the wee hours of the morning and forgets to change diapers. When she's so absorbed, she doesn't hear the baby cry. Rumple has to storm down the winding staircase from his tower lab—he has two labs, and this one she's not allowed in, because it's where he works on the Final Curse. Complaining with every step, he runs to the baby's rescue. As the days flow into weeks, he seems to be spending as much time tending the baby as he does working on the curse, and he threatens to evict Cora. She apologizes, she takes him to bed in an effort to change his mood, but her mothering shows no improvement._

"_Throw her out, that's what I'll do," he coos, jiggling the baby on his knee. "That'll teach her. Then she'll start taking care of you, poor little wee one." But none of that is true: she won't change and he won't throw her out—because that would mean throwing the baby out. Damn his eyes, he likes the brat._

_Regina. _

_Cora calls her that because when Cora has come into her full power, she will make a queen of her daughter, but Rumple calls her "Apple Cheeks." Regina smiles when he does that, but she never laughs._

"_Tending your child was never part of the bargain, dearie."_

"_I'm sorry, master. I don't mean for her to burden you. It's just that I'm working so hard."_

"_Yes, yes," he snaps. "And you have no interest in her."_

_He expects a denial of his accusation, but Cora shrugs._

"_Then give her to me," he decides on an impulse. _

"_But I have plans, a great future for her—"_

"_Give her to me then until her eighteenth birthday, and then you can marry her to a blue blood." When Cora hesitates, he adds, "Give her to me and I will teach you a skill only I know."_

_And a new bargain is struck._

**Jolly Roger 2:12 pm**

Emma's phone buzzes. "It's David," she reports, and then she curses and relays the text message: "'In 302. They're gone.'"

"Gone where?" Bae asks.

David's answer comes back: "'No trace. Bell, Regina, Cora just vanished. Hsp staff saw no 1 cm or go, heard nothing. Sorry. Gold: where shd we look?'"

"'Jefferson's. Sidney's,'" Emma types back. "'Clock tower.'" She glances at Bae. "How much longer till we get there?"

Gold's butt interrupts the conversation. It's playing music.

He rolls to his side and the music grows louder. He recognizes it: Stevie Nicks' "Beauty and the Beast." Tongue in cheek, Belle chose this ring tone for him and her—and programmed it into his phone because he couldn't figure out how.

_Belle?!_ Frantically, he fumbles for his back pocket.

"Mr. Gold? What are you doing?" Henry believes the poison has affected his mind.

It has and will, but for this moment Gold's thinking clearly. "Help me with my phone, would you?" he groans.

"I got this," Emma says and once again, fishes Gold's phone from his pocket.

Gold has trouble gripping the little thing; the muscles in his right hand have petrified. Emma keeps it for him, brings it to his ear. "Belle?" A thousand thoughts and hopes fly through the ether on the wings of that single word.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Rumple," a smoky voice purrs.

"Regina." In panic he manages to gain control of his hand and take the phone. He wants to shout questions, demand answers, threaten actions, but that's not how to win this game, so he forces his quavering voice into a lie. "How lovely to hear from you again, dear." Then he bares his teeth, which he knows Regina can hear through the change in the tone of his voice. "Pray tell, how did you get Belle's telephone?"

"You're a smart boy. Figure it out. Now, let's cut through the bull, shall we?"

"By all means."

"I know you're dying and I have what you need to live." She sends him a photo of the blue vial. "Your directions were spot-on. Thank you. But we won't be FedExing it to you. You're going to have to come and get it."

"I. . . see. . . " he says slowly.

"I'm sure you have doubts, but we want you to live. We really do. That's why we're keeping this medication safe for you. Snow and her minions tried to steal it—they would have you dead. But then, they don't have the dagger, do they?"

"What do you want, Regina?" His voice shudders.

"Come into town. As soon as you arrive, your dagger will signal us, and we'll bring you the medication. We want you healthy just as much as you do. After all, what good is a dead Dark One? And here's a little extra incentive."

Again Gold pulls the phone from his ear to look at the screen. An image of a frightened Belle in hospital gown appears. The image flutters and then pulls back and he can now see the reason for her distress: she's bound, and Cora is standing beside her. In her left hand Cora holds a handful of Belle's hair; in the other, hovering inches from Belle's stomach, she wields the dagger. Gold lets out a groan but turns his head so Regina won't hear.

"You see the situation you're in. Now what are you going to do about it? I understand you've been hesitant to return to town, even though you're dying—any minute now, from the way it sounds." Regina clicks her tongue in mock pity. "What a sad choice, Rumple, to allow Hook to win in such a. . . such a déclassé way. After the thousands of deaths you've cheated, to die from a hook to the chest."

His mind races, trying to figure out how she knows these details. A spy among the Lost Boys? Hardly. These boys are loyal to Bae; besides, Regina doesn't even know they exist. Something technological, then. Perhaps he's underestimated her in that regard. He never really bothered to learn the secrets of technological espionage; he'd preferred human spies and he'd assumed, with her talent for mirrors, she needed no other means of spying. That's the problem with age; you get a little too comfortable with the old ways. What else does she know? He needn't ask; Regina's never been able to resist the temptation of showing off.

"A poisoned hook," she continues. "And with the antidote right here. Here's an idea! Suppose you tell me where you are and I'll bring it to you."

"Stop wasting my time and get to the point, Regina."

"I'm serious, Rumple. Serious as a heart attack—yours. You saw that we have the dagger, so you know I'm not lying when I say we want you to live. We will have gone to a whole lot of trouble for nothing, and a dear friend of Snow's will have died for nothing, if you just sit there, wherever you are, and allow yourself to die." She pauses but he doesn't answer. "I know you, Rumplestiltskin. Above everything else, you want to live. You'll give up anything else before you'll give up your life. And Mother and I quite agree: a dead Dark One is a useless Dark One. So we offer you a deal you can't refuse: your life, and all you have to do is walk into town. We will stay out of your way. Walk into town—or if you're too sick to walk, tell me where you are and I'll come for you. Meet me at your shop and I'll bring it to you, and we will stand by quietly as you recuperate."

"Because a sick Dark One is almost as useless as dead one."

"Precisely. And if you act now, we'll throw in a bonus, free of charge: one slightly damaged Belle. Cracked, but I'm sure she still rings your chimes, doesn't she? Walk into town, that's all it takes, and as soon as you've swallowed that antidote, we'll let her go."

"No you won't. _I_ know _you_, Regina."

"Oh, it's true; I'll take an oath on a bushel of apples. She's an inconvenience anyway. We'll let her go as soon as you're up and prancing again. But Rumple, this is a limited-time offer. If we don't see your sweet little tushy walking through that shop door within the next thirty minutes, Belle's dead. With your dagger, nonetheless. Isn't that delicious? It will be just as if you were here holding the hilt yourself."

Henry can hear his former mother's smug voice leaking out from Gold's ear. His face and hands twist with anxiety. Being the kind of kid he is—being a Charming—he probably feels guilty, as though it's his fault his mother behaves this way, as though he should have converted her to the Light Side before he left to live with Emma. The Charming arrogance: they think they can change people.

Watching the boy quake, Gold has the answer to his dilemma. He can divide Regina from Cora and save himself and Belle in one stroke: he can trade Henry for Belle and the antidote. It's all Regina really wants; though she loves power, she loves Henry more, and she fears the Dark One too much to take him on a slave. She knows the history. He made a point of teaching it to her when he accepted her as an apprentice, lest she get ideas: though the Dark One himself is immortal, without exception, masters of the Dark One have had notoriously short and miserable lives.

He curls his lips back and begins to make the deal. "Regina, dear, I have a counteroffer that I'm sure you'll find much more to your liking." But he can't do it. He makes the mistake of glancing at those little hands which have been tending him all afternoon, little hands shaped just like his father's, little hands with the same blood pumping through the veins. Family. Gold can no more sacrifice Henry than he could sacrifice Bae or Belle. Cora was right: love is weakness.

_Cora, swirling like a ballerina in her billowing dressing gown_, _lovely Cora, so fresh and fair, a hundred years younger than the monster she's just bedded, but a hundred years ahead of him in darkness. He is his own master, but she owns him, has bought him for the price of a few flattering words, a flirtatious toss of her luxurious hair, which she allows him to sink his ugly claws into. When he kisses her, she betrays no suggestion of revulsion; worse, she opens her mouth to him. When he lays her on his bed, she moans for him and he's caught. When he takes her the first time the spinner in him believes he's stealing her innocence, though the Dark One knows better: her hands know just where to go, her hips know just how to move, her mouth is far too wise in the ways of lovemaking. Still, he feels a twinge of guilt, which she milks; so many ways of manipulation there are, and she has mastered them all. _

_Only later, as he lies ensnared in her arms, his heart pounding with hope, does he remember the warning: True Love's kiss will break the dark curse. He glances at the woman whose smooth white cheek lies against his scaly chest, whose fingers entwine with his claws, and his heart breaks because yes, she's changed him, but only on the inside. The maid in his arms has taught him the ways of her world and he will never forget the lesson: love is weakness._

But he glances at Henry's little hands; he closes his eyes and sees Belle in her blue dress falling into his arms, and Cora's lesson is broken. Love is strength.

So he doesn't make the deal, and he's ashamed of himself for even thinking it; blame it on the Dark One. After three centuries, Gold hardly knows how to be anything else. He clenches his jaw as a dampness burns his eyes.

"A counteroffer?" Regina scoffs. "All right, let's hear it."

"You release Belle and return the dagger to Mary Margaret—"

"And?"

"And then bite me." He hangs up on her.

_In the third year of her apprenticeship, Cora cons her way into the bed of a minor prince, one so far removed by blood and temperament from any throne that he will never rule. Which is just as well for his people, Rumple thinks; the prince is a milquetoast, and from what Cora reports—for she doesn't mind sharing the details of her affair; she feels nothing for her master and assumes he feels nothing for her—his talents in bed are equally lacking. _

_But the affair provides an opportunity Cora has longed for: through this prince she can introduce Regina to court. Cora's lowly status (she passes herself off the widow of a duke of a distant realm) should exclude her as a candidate for wife, but she secures her position with a classic con: she (mis)informs the prince that she's pregnant with his child. A quick and quiet wedding is arranged._

_She announces this to Rumple as though she expects him to be happy for her. Truthfully, he doesn't care; he's grown tired of her services anyway, and it's time to seek a new apprentice, someone who can cast his curse. But then she walks out with Regina._

_His magic tosses her into his dungeon. "We had a deal!" he shouts at her. "Regina is mine!"_

"_The prince can give her the one thing you can't: a pedigree. For her sake, let her go," Cora reasons. It's a logical argument, delivered bloodlessly, but neither he nor the laws of magic will allow it to stand._

"_The debt must be paid!"_

_Cora places her hands on her hips. "What then? What will you take for Regina?"_

_The ungrateful child is crying and clutching at her mother's skirts, and he realizes he's already lost. But Cora will pay dearly, and for the rest of her life. Before she can blink Rumplestiltskin thrusts his hand into her breast and yanks out her heart. As he watches her lift Regina into the prince's carriage, he gives the heart a squeeze. Anyone else would scream in pain: Cora just climbs into the carriage and rides away. _

_He locks the heart into a jewelry box and keeps it as a souvenir._


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

**A/N. ****How about a deal, dearies? I aim to please with my tales, so I'm offering you your choice of hero. I have four possible endings, depending upon which character is the catalyst. Several characters will play a role in the final fight, of course, but who would you like to see as the victor over Cora and Regina: Bae, Emma, or Henry? (Snow and David are out of the running for a reason I'll explain in the next chapter.) Or should Regina switch sides? You choose and so it shall be! **

**I struck out on almost all of my guesses for "Miller's Daughter." Someday I'll get one right. . . maybe. In the meantime, I'm kind of glad I was so wrong, because a different path gives the traveler a different view.**

**And now back to the ship. . . .**

* * *

**Jolly Roger 2:13 pm**

Emma snickers. "'Bite me.' Gold, you're for real." Then she remembers she's a mom and probably should not be giving her child the idea that vulgar language is funny—but hell, it _is_; it's so incongruent, this crassness coming from a man who, except for the popped buttons and blood stains on his Armani, still looks like a million bucks. Or considering he owns an entire town, six or seven mil.

When he doesn't react, she leans in a little closer. "Gold? You still with us?"

His eyes are closed and he's breathing in starts and stops.

_He's told her his secrets._

_How stupid! He was a grown man when he became the Dark One—and a man who'd seen other men at their worst. He knew better. He can make no excuses. He'd taught Cora anything she had asked to learn, he'd answered every question, no matter how personal the information and he couldn't even blame lust for his revelations. Because her darkness mirrored his, a soulless soul mate, he'd let her in. Because she touched him without revulsion, he'd let her take him in. Because she'd talked of a future together, he'd assumed she saw him as a partner in crime and in life. He'd trusted her. _

_On nights when he missed Bae especially hard, he shared stories about the lad; he'd even told Cora about Milah. He railed against the Fates, who had plucked up a friendless, powerless peasant, tricked him and trapped him because a new Dark One was needed and he was easy prey. _

_Cora sniffed. She didn't believe in fate. She believed in herself. To credit luck or blame fate was a display of weakness, she said, and the weak deserve what they get in life. She was warning him, he realized; she'd chosen him to be her master, so he should act like one: confident, domineering, unshakable, lest she turn the tables on him. The teacher learned his lesson and hid his vulnerabilities after that._

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. Never again would he be so stupid. Familiarity breeds contempt. Mystery fosters fear._

_Trust no one._

"Gold?"

He sucks in a breath and pries his eyes open. Or thinks he does—Emma and Henry see only slits.

**Storybrooke 2:14 pm**

"I don't understand. What do you _want_?" Belle is crying as Cora drags the dagger down her cheek with just enough pressure to draw a thin thread of blood.

"Nothing you have, that's for certain." Cora rolls her eyes. "Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak."

She points a finger at Belle, warming up to cast a spell, but Regina interrupts. "I've been giving it some thought, and you know, it would be much more fun to keep the imp around, at least for a little while. There hasn't been anyone fun to play with since Mal died." She cuts her eyes to her mother, who's scowling; they both know that the truth is that Regina dreads what will become of her world if her mother gains the Dark One's powers. But they both also know they need each other in the battle to come, for Cora has had a taste of Emma's magic. Their fragile bond, based not on their blood relationship but on their bloodlust, must be preserved through the negotiation of half-truths and lies.

Regina continues, "Gold always has a backup. He wouldn't have made just one little bottle of this cure-all antidote. I'll bet if I search his shop, I'll find a second."

"You haven't much time, darling." Cora shows her the dagger: the "p" is vanishing. "If you don't have that second vial by the time the 'k' disappears, we must find him and take his powers, or they'll be lost forever."

"As for Belle, I have plans for Rumplestiltskin that only she can accomplish for me."

"Do tell, darling!" Cora urges.

Regina practically preens. "Just a quick preview. Imagine Mr. Gold—stately, proper, image-conscious scion—on his hands and knees and a collar about his neck as I lead him around town, permitting his former tenants to pat his head and scratch his belly."

Cora bursts into delighted laughter. "Brilliant, Regina! You cook up the most delicious plans."

"That's not all. When I tire of that game, I will allow him to rise, brush off his clothes and walk upright, and when he starts to feel like a man again, I'll lead him down the alley behind the White Rabbit—the alley we call 'Hookers' Row'—"

Cora is puzzled. "Hook's Row?"

"'Hooker,'" Regina corrects. "A modern term for a strumpet."

"Oh." And then Cora's eyes widen and she licks her lips. "Oooh. I can't wait to hear where you're going with this."

"I'll lead him down Hookers' Row where the two-bit whores parade themselves under the streetlight, and among them, the cheapest tart of them all, peddling her body to the drunks vomiting in the alley. . . ." Regina snaps her fingers and the bare-faced, hospital-gowned Belle is transformed in a purple puff of smoke into a garishly made-up creature in a bustier, a skirt with scarcely enough fabric to qualify as a dinner napkin, and spike heels that would give Dracula a heart attack. Belle gasps and shrinks against her bonds, horrified by the display of magic, while Cora giggles over the display of flesh. "Mother, meet Lacey, Storybrooke's trashiest prostitute."

"You actually have more than one in this tiny hamlet?"

"We're a modern town in a twenty-first century world. So what do you think of Lacey, Mother?"

Cora makes a lovely curtsy. "I bow to you, my daughter; I may be the Queen of Hearts, but you are the Monarch of Mortification. This is so much more satisfying than an outright killing. Rumplestiltskin will die a hundred times a night. He will _beg_ to be allowed to kill himself."

Regina snaps her fingers and Belle is transformed again, this time into a brown mouse in a cage. "Just a sneak peek. Mustn't spoil it. Here, Mother," she offers the cage. "Something more portable for the time being."

"Bravo, Regina. If this is what you do to your former ally, I can't wait to see what you'll dream up for Snow." Cora picks up the cage and sets it on the wet bar. She seems to have accepted Regina's overriding of her plan to acquire the Dark powers for herself-seems to, but Regina knows better than anyone that Cora can wear the most innocent of faces while lying through her teeth.

Cora wanders the living room as Regina stares into the mirror. "Oh, how nice!"

Regina glances over her shoulder. "What is?"

Cora has taken down a pair of photos from the fireplace mantle. With a proud smile she turns the frames around for her daughter to see: both photos are of Regina. "So I take it the old acquaintance was a beau as well."

"A convenience, until he became an annoyance," Regina mutters, turning back to the mirror. "They're coming again. Gluttons for punishment."

"To be expected," Cora shrugs. "They're trapped in the role of hero. They can be nothing else—except dead."

"As soon as we dispatch this confederacy of idiots, we'll go back to Gold's shop and search for another bottle of the antidote." Regina mutters, "Stupid, clumsy girl, tripping on her own feet and breaking the vial. You know, if we can't find a second bottle, and we end up having to stab him to death, it'll be all Snow's fault. His death will be on her head."

**Jolly Roger 2:15 pm**

A cool, damp cloth is pressed to his forehead. He leans into it; its softness eases a little of the ache between his eyebrows. "You okay, Mr. Gold?"

"Yeah," he answers hastily. He won't tell them about the rooms his mind keeps wandering into; that's his business. His other vulnerabilities are all too obvious; he will reveal no more. "Just resting my eyes." Emma accepts the explanation, but Henry stares at him strangely. Gold redirects their attention. "Let's see what we can learn from this photo Regina was so kind as to send."

Emma leans over his shoulder to examine the photo. "The wall's yellow. It's not Jefferson's house."

"Not the clock tower or the library or Belle's," Gold surmises. "You ever been in Sidney's apartment?"

"We were never that close." Emma starts typing into her smartphone. "But it's worth a shot."

"Something to write with, please, Henry?" Gold is still talking when his eyes abruptly close without warning.

_The first time he drops in uninvited and unannounced at Cora's estate—not "castle," for her husband isn't a king; and make no mistake, the estate belongs to Cora, no matter whose name is on the deed—he tells himself it's to recover some books, potions and powders that Cora stole when she left him. But it's the nursery he pops into, and he never does get around to searching for his stuff: he wastes his visit watching the nanny play with Regina._

_After that, no more pretenses: he drops in whenever he likes (and whenever Cora's not at home, which is more often than not) to spy. He comes in the form of a spider or a sparrow or a mote of dust, so this year's nanny (for every season there's another; Cora doesn't believe in fostering attachments between her child and the hired help) won't notice him. But Regina does, and the nannies wonder at the baby, then the little girl, who's so easily fascinated by pests. When she's five she slips up one day and spills their secret, reaching out for the moth hovering around her candle. So excited to see him, she cries out, "Papa!" just as Nanny Number #6 enters the nursery. Nanny has a no-nonsense view of life, which is why Cora hired her, so she seizes the princess by the upper arm and hauls her off to Mother, never mind the fact that they're interrupting a session with the dressmaker. "The child harbors fantasies," Nanny spits out, in a tone normally used to describe children who suck their thumbs or wet the bed. _

_Regina spends that night locked in a dungeon. She is brought a pail of water and a chamber pot, nothing more. _

_After that he doesn't allow her to see him when he spies upon her, but he's there for her first steps, her first riding lesson, her first kiss, her first dance. He's there for her wedding. He's there when she's crowned and when her pregnancy is announced—and when her miscarriage is not. Some of these events, Cora is there for; but Rumplestiltskin is there for all of them._

_Though the magic told him this day would come, he is thrilled beyond thrills the night she summons him (and just a little hurt when she mispronounces his name; a little more hurt that she shows no sign of recognition. She was only three when she left his home; he never should have expected she would remember him. . . but he did.)_

"_I'm so happy we're back where we belong. . . .Together."_

_And he should be happy when he discovers he's finally found the curse caster._

"Mr. Gold?" Henry's rooted around in Hook's desk and has produced a quill, a pot of ink and a half-sheet from a ledger.

Gold concentrates everything he's got on the movement of his right hand—and it takes everything he's got to force the hand to accept Henry's gifts. After two exasperating attempts to hold the quill, he admits defeat. "Perhaps you'd better write it for me."

"Sure." Henry takes the gifts back and prepares for dictation. "What do you want to say in the note?"

A wry smile flutters on Gold's lips. "Write this: 'I need science.'"

Henry copies it carefully. "What else?"

"That's all."

Something foul rises from Gold's stomach into his throat, and he reaches, unsuccessfully, for the cup of water. Bae rescues him. As he holds the cup to his lips, he has to fight to swallow; his burning throat needs the water, but his stomach wants nothing to do with any new additions. Hook has chosen his weapon carefully: it will be a race to see whether the poison destroys the heart or the stomach first.

Bae whispers, "Don't go dying on us just yet" as he takes the cup away.

"I wouldn't give Hook the satisfaction," Gold answers.

"I see land." Henry's looking out a porthole. "There's a car waiting in the treeline!"

"That would be Mr. Dove," Gold says. He glances at Bae. "He's my Lost Boy." And then Bae understands Dove can be trusted. "He will drive you into town. Ask anything of him: he'll deliver. Henry?"

The boy pops back around.

"Take the note to Mr. Dove. Ask him, after he's taken Bae and Emma to Sidney's apartment, to find Mary Margaret and get the antidote from her. Then he should take the antidote and this note to Dr. Whale. Can you remember all that, Henry?"

"Yeah!" Henry takes the stairs two at a time.

"Sounds like you're not coming with us," Bae says suspiciously.

"I can't. If I cross inside the five-mile barrier, my magic will return, and the dagger will react to my presence."

"And Cora will take over," Emma predicts.

"I'm not strong enough to conjure anything, and I could drop dead at any minute, so as soon as she realizes she has possession of me, she'll summon me. The only way she can gain anything is to kill me."

"But then she'll be the Dark One," Emma says. "Who would want that?"

"She would."

"So you can't go to the antidote, and since the antidote requires magic, it can't be brought to you," Bae surmises. "What's left?"

"Once the dagger has been taken back, I can cross the line. Mr. Dove will be waiting with the antidote—and, I hope, Dr. Whale."

"Emma," Gold continues, "you're going to have to fight Cora and Regina." He's looking at Emma meaningfully.

"How can we—" and she suddenly takes his meaning. "Oh, no. I won't do it. I agree with Neal: I don't want anything to do with that crap." She throws her hand up. "Don't! You're going to lecture me about how I have to do this for my town and my family because I'm the savior."

Gold smiles wryly. "But you are." He glances at Bae. "It's a long story, one I'm sure Henry will be glad to share when this is over. Emma, it's not the power you're afraid of; it's the source of the power. But listen: your magic did not come from me. And although I saw your future and took advantage of that information, I had no plan for you beyond breaking the curse. I wouldn't have bestowed magic upon you even if it had been possible for me to do so; it just wouldn't have served my purpose."

"Where did it come from, then? If it's not black magic, is it fairy magic?"

He snorts. "If it were, you could never have stopped Cora when she tried to take your heart, and you wouldn't be able to stop her now. That kind of magic is all airy-fairy; useless in a fight. Your magic is the direct, unadulterated product of True Love, and that's why Cora and Regina together can't stand against it. I'm not even sure I could."

Bae is listening to this with growing disgust. He sweeps the news away with a toss of his hand. "I better get up top. It's time to drop anchor."

"Bae," Gold calls him back. "Before you go, in case the poison moves faster than the battle does—"

"Yeah, I know. I'll get around to forgiving you one of these days."

"We need to say it now. You need to hear it, in case—I love you, son."

Bae shifts from foot to foot. "Yeah. Me too." He starts up the stairs, then turns around. "I love you too, Papa." He holds his hand out for Henry. "Come on, kid. Help me drop the anchor." He adds to Gold, "We'll call you as soon as we've won."

"You won't have to. I'll feel it."

"How?"

"I won't feel Cora pulling on me any more."

Bae nods. "See you, Papa," he says firmly.

Gold's voice isn't as confident. "See you, Bae."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

**A/N. My thanks to Guest, Hannah097, Angry Penguin and jcat30 for helping me to select the victor for this story! But I want to give everyone else one more chance, so I'm extending the voting period until March 30. Who should defeat Cora: Emma, Bae, Henry or Regina? Or cast a write-in vote. Elect a hero! And Marcie, I think you're going to like the ending I have planned—something special for Belle and Gold.**

* * *

**Storybrooke 2:16 pm**

Cora has joined her daughter at the mirror, where they are watching the idiots' progress. "If they had an ounce of sense, they'd go into hiding," Regina remarks as the mirror shows her an image of David, Snow and some of the dwarves making their way down Main Street. "What do they hope to accomplish? Against us, they have no more power than a troop of ants against a pride of lions."

"Emma has magic," Cora reminds her. "Though she has no idea how to use it. We'll need to watch for her. If we play our cards right, we can take her power as well."

"Thank you, Mother, for helping me bring Henry home." But even as she expresses gratitude, there's a twinge of uncertainty in her voice. Regina can't recall a time when Cora ever cared what anyone else wanted, least of all her daughter. It doesn't seem likely that when this battle is over, Cora will simply hand over Henry and allow the little Mills family to go its own way. Whatever Cora's current plans for Regina might be, Henry could well get in the way of them.

As if reading her mind—a skill no sorcerer has ever possessed, but when it comes to Cora, who knows?—Cora assures her, "All I want is your happiness."

Inwardly, Regina sighs. She almost wishes it was Rumplestiltskin she had partnered with instead of her own mother. With the imp there were secrets and manipulations, but at least he never pretended to be on anyone else's side but his own. "Mother. . . why do you hate him—Rumplestiltskin?"

Cora's smile and her voice are honey. "Oh, I don't hate anyone, darling. I'm incapable of it. No, if I were capable of feeling anything for him, I suppose it would be a sort of nostalgic gratitude. He was my first teacher of magic. It was through him I discovered myself."

"Why do you want him dead, then?"

"Well, he's a liability, isn't he? A loose cannon. So many of his decisions are based on whimsy, and that makes him unpredictable and unmanageable."

"And dangerous." Regina turns her attention back to the mirror, but she doesn't see the Charmings any more: she sees a tent in an open nighttime field and she feels her heart breaking all over again as the doctor gives her the bad news: _"__I'm sorry. I failed. The heart wasn't strong enough. It couldn't withstand the procedure."_

The field dissolves, and in the mirror she now sees herself floating through her castle in her black robes, her hair and her head high. _In the kitchen waits the hatter. She's made him come in through the servants' entrance, for he's hired help, not a guest, and she makes him wait and wait, growing increasingly nervous as the minutes tick by and he's late in returning to his wife and their newborn. When he leaves today, he will bear in mind that his priority is not his family but his service to the queen. _

_When at last she summons him to her parlor, she dispenses with niceties: as hired help, he merits no courtesies. She doesn't even offer him a chair. She gives him his orders—a particular mirror she's heard tales of; he's to travel to the far-off land in which the current owner resides and he is not to return to the Enchanted Forest without the mirror. She tosses a velvet bag filled with gold coins at him; he's to pay for the mirror with this gold. "You may keep whatever remains after you've bought the mirror," she says casually. _

_He examines the contents of the velvet bag. From the condition of his clothes, she judges that he is in need of more than he is likely to earn from this chore, and when he turns forlorn eyes to her, she sees she's right. "Your Majesty, have you any other foreign purchases you'd like made—perhaps some pearls fresh from the sea, or newly mined diamonds from the Northlands?"_

"_The mirror. That's all." But the corner of her mouth quirks up, for she can smell his hunger._

"_Suppose—" he starts, then shakes his head. "Never mind."_

"_Suppose what? You know I detest a tease, Jefferson. Ask what you were going to ask, or I'll deduct a coin from your pay."_

_He's caught now. He licks his lips nervously, and she knows she's about to hear something juicy. "Suppose there was a piece of information. . . about someone you think is an ally, but who backstabbed you. What would that information be worth to you?"_

_Her face darkens. "Which ally?" She has so few; if one of them has betrayed her, there will be hell to pay. Oh, but thanks to her mirrors, she knows everything that goes on in her kingdom; the hatter is bluffing, desperate for money._

"_Rumplestiltskin."_

"_Rum—" The half-syllable has passed her lips before she can prevent it. Tilting her head to the side as though to empty her ear of the word Jefferson has just spoken, she takes a moment to regain her composure. "Rumplestiltskin, you say." She conjures a second velvet bag and it floats into the hatter's hands—that way, she doesn't have to come near him. "I'll take it all back if you're lying."_

_He opens the bag and peers inside. Relief floods his face. "You'll find this information worth every copper, Your Majesty."_

"_Out with it, then."_

"_He tricked you."_

_Again? She wonders. It's becoming quite a bore, really; the imp fears her growing powers, which exceed his, and so he resorts to petty tricks in the little game of one-upmanship between them._

"_When you left his apprenticeship, he needed a way to rope you back in."_

_She sits up straighter now; this sounds interesting._

"_Do you remember Doctor Frankenstein?" He shifts his feet; what he's about to say will reveal his own culpability, but he's hoping he can gloss over that; the news itself will be shocking enough to distract her from his own role in it._

"_Of course I remember! The fraud promised he'd bring my Daniel back to life—"_

"_No, he didn't. He promised he'd try, and that was the promise he broke. He didn't actually try."_

_She jerks to her feet and her skirts swish angrily as she comes at him. He gulps and takes a step backward. "Frankenstein lied about the procedure? He didn't even do it? Is that what you're telling me?"_

_Jefferson nods meekly. "It was all a scam. A show. That's why he wouldn't allow you into the tent to watch him work—he wasn't working."_

_Regina wheels, her fists clenching. "Where is he? I'll kill him! I'll draw and quarter him the traditional way!"_

"_He's back in his own land, conducting his research. He still hopes to find the procedure to reanimate the dead. His research is quite expensive, Your Majesty, but he's well funded—his benefactor is Rumplestiltskin."_

"_Not any more," Regina shouts. "I'll put a quick end to that."_

"_No, you won't, Your Majesty. It's all part of a deal."_

_The word brings her up short. She knows full well the power that a contract, whether written or oral, holds over her former master. "What deal?"_

"_It wasn't by your request that Frankenstein came to our world. It was Rumplestiltskin's. To disillusion you, once and for all; to cure you of the notion that magic could bring Daniel back. 'To create a monster,' he said."_

_She says slowly, "A monster to cast his damn curse."_

The idiots and their lapdogs have arrived at Sidney's apartment building. Regina's hands shake with power and fury. As soon as they make the first move, she'll have them, Snow and David; she'll crush them like ants who've dared to disturb a sleeping lioness. Then she'll find Emma and take her out too, and reclaim Henry. And when Henry is safe, Cora will summon Rumplestiltskin with the dagger and Regina will introduce him to Racy Lacey. . .

And his new jewelry. With a satisfied smile, Regina conjures a tight leather collar studded with spikes and a little gold name plate engraved "Rumpie."

**Jolly Roger 2:16 pm**

"I better go too—" Emma starts, but Gold grabs the sleeve of her jacket. His hand is still shaking and the effort seems to tire him.

"Wait. Before you go against Cora, you need to learn a few maneuvers. Sit," he points to the chair Henry's vacated. "This won't take long." Emma forms a protest, but he hasn't the time to argue—or the strength. "Some defensive tricks to protect David and Snow." He lowers his eyes. "And Bae."

Humbled, she nods and seats herself. In two minutes he provides her a very general overview of the process of conjuring; the laws of magic will have to wait for some quiet Sunday afternoon when they can sit on a park bench and watch Bae fly a kite with Henry while Snow and David spread a picnic.

He draws in a sharp breath. He's growing soft in his dying hours. Inexcusable: there's a war to be won and Good's sole sorceress must be educated. In three more minutes he teaches her the simplest of defensive spells. There's no time for more. He teaches her how to conjure four enchanted swords to distribute to her parents and Bae; that will have to be enough.

"You must cultivate your power," he insists. "There will be other Coras and Reginas and you're still the savior. And though we have yet to see it, I sense in Henry a power like no other that's ever been. It stands to reason: his mother is the product of True Love; his father is the product of True Evil. If I'm correct, this power should start to manifest itself within the next two or three years. He will need training, just as you do; if he receives it, he can accomplish things for his people that you and I can't begin to imagine."

Emma's mouth twitches in grief. "Who do I go to, Gold, if you aren't here?"

He thinks for such a long moment that she fears he's fainted, but at last, begrudgingly, he answers, "Let Blue start you on your way, but don't let her get into your head. She'll take away your passion, and with that, your ability to understand and care about other people. Let her teach you the basics, but then go to the Enchanted Forest and seek a teacher who won't tamper with your humanity. And don't let Blue get her hands on Henry. You must train him yourself; don't let anyone else do it. You're seeing what my dagger does to those who know its power—when he comes into manhood, Henry's power will be even greater. Only someone who truly loves him can resist the temptation to enslave him."

They hear Henry calling from above. "Emma! Dad says to tell you we're dropping anchor in five minutes!"

"I'm gonna have to go," Emma said, "but before I do, what was it you were starting to tell me about a weapon that can kill Cora?"

"Under the bed in my workroom there's a floorboard that will come up with a little leverage. Buried beneath the board is a jewel box—inside is Cora's heart."

"For real?" Emma wonders if the poison's gone to his brain. "Her heart?"

"Actually, her soul. The ancient sorcerers who discovered how to remove and manipulate the soul mistakenly called it the heart, and so it's still called. With slight pressure applied to it, terrible pain will result. If the heart is spoken to, the owner will be forced to obey any instruction given. If the heart is crushed, the owner will die."

Emma utters a profanity.

"Exactly. The one who possesses a sorcerer's heart will possess the sorcerer. You must make certain no one finds that heart and tries to use it."

"An obedient Cora? I don't see the problem, Gold."

"Emma, it's slavery."

"Seems fitting to me. It's what she'd do to you and any of the rest of us she thought she could get something out of." Emma shrugs. "A fair fight. A guy who reads westerns should be able to appreciate that."

"It's not Cora I'm worried about. To control a person by manipulating the heart is the blackest act of magic there is. The evil inherent in this magic will not just break the slave; it will destroy the soul of the slave owner."

"That's why you said 'not for Snow.' But Henry—you said Henry could do it without harm to himself."

Gold sighed. "I didn't say that; he did."

"Was he right?"

"What a child can do and what he should be allowed to do are two different things."

"But as you pointed out, Henry's not just a Charming—he's a Gold."

"Heroes shouldn't become villains, dearie! It goes against the laws of nature."

Bae shouts from above, "Emma! Come on, let's go!"

The pain in Gold's head and his gut has gone. He knows enough about poisons to be nervous about that. "As soon as it's over—"

"The very second, we'll call," she assures him. "And we'll get our butts back out here."

"That won't be necessary. I'll come to you. One way or another." He squeezes her hand. "You can do this. You were born to do this."

Doubt clouds her face, but she bends over him. "Goodbye. . . Rumplestiltskin." She kisses his forehead before flying up the stairs.

**Storybrooke 2:19 pm**

Cora stands at the window, hidden behind the drapes. "They're here."

"I can see that, Mother. I've been watching it all along, right here in the mirror." Does Cora not see the two idiots framed in the mirror? Does she not trust Regina's magic? Or is this a snub to Regina, insulting her by insulting her specialty, mirror magic?

"They aren't moving."

"I can see that too."

"They're just standing there in the road, the whole lot of them. Talking."

"Snow is talking on a cell phone, Mother," Regina snaps. "Obviously she's plotting with Emma."

"Emma must be back in town, then."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"They don't appear intending to attack."

"They're powerless against us and they know it. All they have is guns and swords and arrows."

"I can destroy them from here." Cora yanks at the window but can't figure out how to unlatch it. "How does this open?"

"No, Mother; _they_ have to attack _us_. So Henry will see we had to kill them to defend ourselves."

"We haven't much time." Cora withdraws the dagger from her jacket pocket: the "l" has vanished.

Regina's face is hard and her tone cold. "Not yet, Mother. This is my kingdom; I'll say when and how we defend it."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

**Jolly Roger 2:22 pm**

_Another door beckons and he enters, and he finds a child sitting on the dirt floor of a hut. Not by sight—for no one in this village has a mirror—but rather by a connection in feelings, he recognizes this child as himself, age three or four._

_The child Rumplestiltskin is staring at a pair of boots. He is too afraid to raise his eyes past the laces of those mud-crusted boots, which pause inches from where he's sitting and drawing in the dirt with a sharp stick. He does a lot of drawing, mostly of the living things he sees around him: chickens, birds, sheep, neighbor children, his father's sister Maerwynn. People praise him for his drawings._

_He never draws his father. _

_The voice above the boots is angry. Not at him. The wearer of the boots scarcely notices him, ever; even as a baby, he seemed to know he was supposed to be quiet, and so he seldom cried, never whimpered, even when hurt or hungry, and when other children ran and banged on pots and sang songs and shouted and laughed, he compensated for them by making himself even quieter. That's why he started drawing, to have something to do that made no noise. And to have some something he could control. _

_The voice above the boots curses and shouts at Aunt Maerwynn, and then the boots wheel about and stomp away and pass through the heavy curtain that shuts the hut off from the rest of the world. Maerwynn starts crying and she picks Rumple up, carries him to a chair beside the fire and sits down. She rocks him on her lap and murmurs, "Poor baby, poor little orphan child" over and over. She seems surprised that he doesn't cry. _

_Days pass and the amount of food that Maerwynn lays on the table each morning for breakfast dwindles; it's a little less each day. And then one morning with the south wind Aunt Krea arrives and soon there is food again, for Krea is a skilled bargainer and when she takes to market the cloth that Maerwynn weaves, she brings none of it back, only a purse filled with coppers. In the evenings Krea tells stories of her adventures out in the world and Maerwynn sings him songs when she tucks him in. There is enough to eat and clean clothes to wear and they are happy._

_But it doesn't last. Happiness never can; he was born understanding that. The outside world intervenes: the neighbor children push him and hit him because he's small and quiet; they taunt him because he's an orphan. He figures it's own fault he's small and he tries everything he can think of to make himself grow, but he can't grasp why it's wrong to be an orphan. Besides, he's not: his father is alive; he's just gone and not coming back. _

_One day an itinerant tinker arrives. He's just come from Aunt Krea's old village and he has lots of stories to tell—mean stories, in Rumple's opinion; stories that sting and wound. One of them is a story about Krea. Years later, when he's come to understand the meaning of the words the man used—when he learns that sometimes men to do women the same thing that the tup does to the ewes—Rumple is incensed, but it's far too late: the tinker's tale about Krea has altered the village's opinion of her forever. Because they call her names now too, she stops going to market. She trades places with Maerwynn, becoming the weaver while Maerwynn sells the cloth, but neither is very good at her new role. The meals shrink again, until Rumple is old enough to go to market himself. He learns to use his small size to his advantage: he appears two or three years younger than he really is, and so buyers don't expect him to be as shrewd as he is. He learns easily, learns how to figure sums in his head and how to read when so few other children can—or even care to. Because he's so thin, sometimes the buyers add an apple or cheese or bread to the coppers they pay him for the cloth. So that they can eat well, he picks up the skills of both of his aunts: he is the clever dealer Krea and the reclusive artist Maerwynn. _

_And the village never lets him forget he is also his father, the army deserter Jarin. _

"Mr. Gold?" The lad the Lost Boys call Slightly bends over him, giving his shoulder a shake. "You still in the land of the living?"

Gold chuckles. "Unless I'm a zombie and just don't realize it yet."

"They left. Your friend Dove squeezed 'em all into an SUV and they hit the road a couple of minutes ago. It's just you and me and our cell phones now."

Gold's eyes fly open and he struggles to sit up. "Henry. Where is he?"

"Dunno. He's not on board. I figured he went with the rest of them."

"Help me up top. We have to find him."

**Highway 2:22 pm**

All right, so she's the savior. She's accepted that, sort of, though had there been a choice in the matter, she would have rejected this role for the one she'd always inhabited: the fringe operator, the one who dives in occasionally to interact with people, but dashes out again as soon as the situation gets heavy.

As the savior, she's broken a curse and slain a dragon and defeated a pirate in a sword fight. She's proven her bravery and her strength. But she's never done anything quite like this before: she's riding (albeit in a chauffer-driven Yukon) into war to test not only her mettle but her magic against two very experienced, powerful and ruthless sorceresses. If she fails, her mother, her father, her son, and her beloved will suffer (yes, beloved, she admits; for she is about to face death, so she may as well face the truth: she loves Neal, though she will never reveal that to anyone. . . and she'll do her damnest to convince Neal's father that what he saw on her face was not the look of a woman who "wants a second chance with that man").

The stakes are higher than they've ever been, and it's all Gold's fault. She can name a dozen ways that it's his fault, and no doubt there are a dozen more that she will never know about, because that sneaky bastard confides in no one except—and then she feels a twinge of sympathy. The one person he might have shared his secrets with, the one person who might have had a chance of bringing him into the social fold (for he too is a fringe operator; recognizing that trait she shares with him has led her to give a bit more leeway than she would have—should have—otherwise) remembers nothing he's ever told her, nothing he's ever done for her, nothing they've ever felt for each other. Crap. What a life to be living. And now a son who doesn't want anything to do with him, a leather-wrapped pirate who's poisoned him, and two witches anxious to make a slave of him or kill him—either outcome will make Regina and Cora just as happy. The only human being who'll miss him when he's gone is an eleven-year-old. Crap on a cracker.

Emma had better watch out, lest she start caring what happens to the old creep.

To distract herself, she tries to strike up a conversation with the chauffer—but a useful conversation, one that could glean needful information. "So, uhm, Mr. Dove, is it?"

"Yes, ma'am." The chauffer doesn't even glance at her in the rear view mirror. Gold's got him well trained.

"What's happening in town? Have Cora and Regina done any damage yet?"

"They made a mess of the pawnshop. Ms. French is missing." He finally glances at her through the mirror. "Her condition is unknown."

"We have to presume she's alive. We can't make a direct attack without risking her life," Emma ponders.

"We have one advantage," Bae suggests. "There are ten of us and only two of them."

Emma's tempted to add: But only one of us has magic. A glance at the five Lost Boys, whose eyes glitter with eagerness for the battle to come, dissuades her from throwing cold sea water on their hopes.

"There's an entire town of us," Dove corrects. "Even the nuns and Dr. Hopper have taken up arms and stand beside Queen Snow."

That should make her feel better, and it sort of does, but it also adds to Emma's burden: how can she protect all these people? Cora and Regina can demolish an entire mob with a flick of their magic wrists. With a deep sigh, she mutters to herself, "What the hell, Gold?"

The Yukon hits a bump and Neal practically ends up in Emma's lap—well, with eight grown people crammed into this SUV, it's a bit crowded. As he rights himself, he gives her an apologetic smile. The tingle under her ribcage informs her that they've still got the chemistry, a dozen years later.

She's ashamed of herself for thinking about that when her town's about to be decimated.

Dove glances in the mirror again and asks softly, "You are his son?"

Ah, Emma thinks, so maybe Gold does have a confidant. Though she's sure those confidences are few and lacking in detail.

Neal hesitates. Would he, even now, disclaim his father? What has Gold—Rumplestiltskin, Emma corrects herself, for Neal has only just met Gold, and from the stories Henry and Mary Margaret have told her, there's a pretty wide stretch between the imp and the pawnbroker—what has Rumplestiltskin done that is so awful his own son would reject him? But Neal's jaw loosens and Emma knows—she knows him too well, even after twelve years apart—his heart is softening, just a little. "I am," he says.

Dove is a man who keeps his thoughts to himself; Emma could've guessed that even before she met him, just by hearing who his employer is. But there's a warmth and an amazement in his eyes as he connects again with Neal through the mirror. "It's an honor, Master Baelfire."

Neal peers past Emma and out the window at the empty highway. He needs to talk to her privately, before he's ready to confront his father. Well, if not her, then his fiancée. . . . assuming that Tamara woman is the trustworthy type. He'll come around, eventually, to talk to Gold, after he's categorized and labeled the conflicting emotions roiling in him. Accusations, accompanied by yelling and stomping off and stomping back and yelling some more, will come next, and when he's released all those wilder emotions, he'll quiet down, and then they can really talk. It will take days, but he will come around. Emma knows him. Having the incarnate bond of blood that is Henry between Neal and Gold will give Neal the excuse he needs to put aside his pride.

Dove adds, "He's been looking for you for three hundred years."

Neal scrunches in his seat but doesn't reply.

"That scarf he's wearing," Dove continues. "It's not a scarf. It was your baby blanket."

Neal shakes his head a little. "Gods."

Of all the questions Emma has as a result of this trip to New York, there's one she's absolutely certain has been answered: Neal will forgive.

Emma has to admit, she hopes Gold lives to see it.

**Storybrooke 2:25 pm**

Cora is still watching out the window, standing behind the curtain. She needn't bother trying to hide, though; Regina is certain that Snow and David know exactly who's in Sidney's apartment. "My, my," Cora says. "Quite a lot of them now, isn't there?"

"I can see that, Mother."

"An what an assortment of weapons!" Cora actually sounds delighted. "I see a few from the old country: there's a crossbow, some swords, a mace. Quite a few objects I don't recognize, but I presume they're weapons as well. But not one of them is a weapon that can stand up against us. What a shame. And how utterly dull. The one person who could possibly provide a little excitement is who-knows-how-many miles away."

"Are you referring to Rumplestiltskin or Emma?"

"Emma, of course. Have you tasted her magic yet, darling? It's unique. It has a sort of fairy quality to it—you know, that pinky quality? All warm and fuzzy and"—she shudders—"nice. Yet it has a forcefulness like ours. It would be interesting to study that magic, test its limits, discover its strengths."

"Mother. . ." Regina says in a warning tone, for she can tell where her mother's thoughts are heading. "Don't go there."

But Cora ignores her, as Cora always has. It chaps Regina's hide: this is Regina's world; it's only common sense to listen to Regina's advice. "When I have his magic," she says thoughtfully, "I believe I'll take hers as well. Should be interesting."

"You'll never get it away from her."

Cora laughs harshly. "Oh, there's always a way. Especially with one so inexperienced. . . and so emotionally entangled. What were the Fates thinking, giving such power to a girl riddled with weaknesses? The worst of which happens to be the easiest to exploit. So many people she loves! How strong will her resistance to us be, I wonder, when Snow and Charming lie bloody and dying at our feet?"

A delighted shudder passes through Regina's body. It gives Regina that pinky feeling just to imagine that sight.

But the shudder turns abruptly cold. She's had two years to learn what Emma Swan is made of, and she's nowhere near Cora's level of confidence that watching her parents die will make Emma crumble into easy vulnerability. Besides, the plan—damn it, the plan! Despite her earlier protestations, clearly, Cora doesn't give a damn about the plan. She only cares about piling on the power. A bloody, mass slaughter like the one Cora's imagining will not only kill any chance Regina has of winning Henry's love—it will kill Henry. Drive him into insanity.

"Mother! This can't happen. We can't just slaughter them out in the open. It will destroy Henry!"

"You're forgetting, sweetheart: magic can do anything, if you just have enough power. The Curse of the Empty-Hearted will bring him back to you, and then we'll both have everything we've ever wanted."

"You're not cursing my son." Regina gapes at her mother, who's idly looking out the window. Cora _knows _what this will do to Henry. And it's not just a matter of not caring about the boy—about her grandson!—it's a matter of not caring about Regina's happiness.

Cora laughs again. "You're too literal, Regina. 'Curse' is just a name. The spell won't harm him. In fact, it really should be called the Blessing of the Empty-Hearted, because it will bring you both the love you seek."

"Not love, Mother. A lie."

No, Regina realizes: she's underestimating her mother. It's not a matter of not caring. It's a matter of wanting to break Regina.

**Jolly Roger 2:25 pm**

"Find Henry."

Slightly doesn't need to be told how urgent this is: his concern is scrawled all over his freckled face. He lays Gold gently on the deck, makes a bit of a pillow for him with a piece of canvas. "Be right back." And he takes off.

A wave of nausea overtakes Gold and he tries but fails to vomit. His vision has narrowed; the peripheral vision is a haze. Now that he's alone he allows himself to groan. He grabs a hold of his anger as a shield against the cold that's creeping up his legs. "Not yet, you son of a bitch," he calls out to the pirate who put him here. "I might die, but it won't be here on this damned ship." He's defeated, he knows that; but he'll rob Hook of whatever satisfaction he can, however small.

_It takes years before he gains any semblance of control over the power of prophecy he's acquired from the Seer. To be truthful, his study of the art of prophecy is somewhat held back; he's just so busy researching the Final Curse. And if he's really honest with himself, he'll admit prophecy is the one power that scares him. He's not just afraid of what he might see—or might not see; he's also afraid he's going to misinterpret something (his interpretive skills have left much to be desired, after all) and get set off-course, never to find his way back again to Bae._

_When he does attempt a vision, one winter night when he can't sleep and his lab experiments of the day have frustrated him, he's upset by what he sees. _

_An all-engulfing cyclonic cloud, full of dirt and debris, rolls across the land, uprooting trees, crushing cottages like a man would crush a walnut in his fist. Animals are thrown miles from their barns and pens, but amazingly, humans and magical beings are unharmed—well, physically, that is. The cloud sweeps them up, deafens them, fills their eyes and their minds with sand. And at the eye of the storm a viciously beautiful woman stands tall, howling her laughter into the wind, her black silk and lace whipping around her legs, her sobbing enemy at her feet, cradling a dying knight._

_Rumple knows the woman. He rejects the vision. He pushes it away, walks away from it, will not return to it for years. Only after he's come to accept that the Fates dabble in cruel irony and that magic will tax him time and again before he's finally paid in full for this curse, will he return to the sight of Queen Regina carrying out his plan. _

_But for tonight, after subjecting himself to this awful, ironic vision, he needs a nightmare chaser. He downs the contents of his flask and whisks himself off to Cora's estate, to the bedroom of the six-year-old who used to call him Papa. He watches her sleep peacefully, a doll under her arm, her thumb in her mouth. Soundlessly he leans over her and extracts the thumb. Her mouth closes. _

_Does she ever dream of him? If she saw him again, would she remember? _

_This is the first of many terrible prices he will be required to pay. The daughter of his heart will cast the curse that will, in three hundred years, bring him to his son._


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

**Storybrooke 2:29 pm**

There is still a way she can salvage this, Regina thinks. There has to be: she's worked so hard, come too far to fail, especially to a simple lapse in judgment. That's always been her downfall: the hope that pushed her into trusting people. Believing Cora when she said, "Who am I to stop you?" Believing Jefferson when he said, "I know the man who can do what you want—bring back the dead." Believing Snow when she promised to keep the secret. Believing Rumple when, after she'd asked if studying magic would cause her to become evil like Cora, he said, "That, dearie, is entirely up to you."

Because it really wasn't. She'd come to understand that, after arriving in this world. Her feet had been set upon this course even before she was born.

But she has a choice now. Regina raises her chin. Her eyes are wide open and no one's ever going to cheat her again. She's powerful, she's smart, and she will salvage this. She will win Henry back.

"Look, darling." Cora shows her the dagger. The "e" has vanished.

**Highway 2:29 pm**

"Hey." Emma nudges Neal. "You said something about going somewhere that slowed your aging down? And I heard one of your buddies call you Petey. Is that as in Peter Pan?"

Neal shrugs. "At one time."

Emma settles back against the seat, even though it means she squeezes him out. After what he did to her, the least he can do is give her some room. She's never been a believer in that men-are-from-Mars crap, but there is one relationship theory that's beginning to make sense now: the one they call "the Peter Pan Syndrome." She sniffs. "That explains a lot."

But he's wrapped up in other thoughts and won't bite at the bait she's dangled. "I'm _a_ Peter Pan. One of many."

"You're kidding." Now she's a believer. Hell, she's ready to start the club: Women Who Love Peter Pan Types. They'll all change their names to Wendy.

"Every generation has its own Lost Boys. And every Peter eventually grows up." Before she can ask him if he's got to adulthood yet, his phone rings and he snaps it open. "Yeah?" He listens a minute, then curses, then says, "Yeah. Let me know if you find him. . . . Yeah, I know you will. Hey, how's"—Emma listens to him stumble on the words—"my father?. . . Yeah. Let me know. . . Thanks." He closes the phone and slips it back into his hoodie. He casts a guilty glance at Emma, though none of this is his fault. Is it? But he knows her; she'll need to vent, and he's the closest target. Beating around the bush will just make things worse, though, so he plunges in. "Henry's missing. Slightly's searching for him, but he thinks he may be running back to Storybrooke. Would he do that?"

Beneath his question is a sad admission that he knows nothing about his own son. It's true: he doesn't even know Henry's birthday or his middle name, let alone anything about his character. She'd feel sorry for Neal, if not for the jail thing. And then she thinks about the question and realizes she doesn't know the answer. Maybe she doesn't know Henry as well as she needs to, either.

**Jolly Roger 2:33 pm**

_This room does not beckon like the others: it insists. He's thrust from behind and yanked from the front so there's no way to resist; he falls forward onto the rocky ground. When he rises, his ankle no longer aches, but he can't see. He stretches out his hands, making his way by touch. His fingers tell him that three of the walls are made of a hard stone, while the fourth is made of wooden bars, spiked at the ends. The bars reach from ceiling to floor. He sniffs: the air is moist and smells of sulfur. He finds a dry spot and lowers himself to the ground to wait—for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, for someone to speak to him, for anything to happen. _

_He drifts in and out of sleep. There's nothing else to do. When he awakens, he can't estimate the time: he remembers it was somewhat after 9 pm when the clever princes captured him with a fake contract._

_His eyes finally adjust to the dim light of torches, his nose learns to ignore the stench, but his stomach never learns to tolerate the cold, greasy pottage the guards try to get him to eat twice a day—especially when he finds maggots among the lentils. _

_He develops a cough. The muscles in his legs weaken and cramp from lack of exercise and nutrition. He allows the guards to witness his decline: they will report back to Prince David. And yet, he is exactly where he wants to be: caged and stripped of his magic, seemingly forever. It's one of his cleverest tricks, for who would suspect that the Dark One actually sought out such a state? But here, reduced to this shivering, starving, unwashed almost-human, he's a far cry from the Feared One, and so when Snow implores her husband to allow her to consult Rumplestiltskin, Charming relents, and an exchange of information wins the imp the last piece of the puzzle: the Savior's name. As the White Queen, her arm wrapped protectively around her belly, and her consort, his arm wrapped protectively around her, hurry from the damp cavern, the correctness of Rumple's choice is confirmed for him: if he hadn't allowed them to cage him, Charming never would have allowed Snow to come to him, and he never would have learned the precious name. In his new life, Rumple promises himself, he will never lower himself like this again._

_Sometimes as the guards stare at him, he rocks back and forth, giggling. Sometimes he literally climbs the walls and hangs from the ceiling. They stand farther back on the days he performs this mock circus for them. They know he's growing crazier, but what they're not sure of, even after weeks of his imprisonment, is whether he has any magic left. The fairies promised their dust would weaken him and leave him powerless, but then, no one has ever imprisoned a Dark One before, so who can say for sure?_

_When he's lost so much weight that his leathers hang loose from his body, he asks for paper, ink and a quill. He wishes to unburden his soul, he says; he wants to write his confession, in hopes that the prince will permit it to be taken to a priest. Not even Charming can refuse that request. The materials are brought, and additional torches are lit so that he can see what he's writing. He labors on his confession for days, but when the guards come for it, saying that the itinerant priest has arrived and wishes to read it, he giggles and claims he got hungry and ate it. Then he hangs upside down from the ceiling, and the guards back away._

_What they don't know is that the scroll has been rolled up and hidden behind loose rocks. What they don't know is that on the night he was captured, he carried a small bottle of ink in his boot— ink he had personally extracted from the largest squids in the Southern Seas. This is the ink he used to write his confession—ink with magic properties resistant to the dampening effect of fairy dust. What they don't know is that his "confession" is a single word, written elegantly, exactly one hundred times: Emma Emma Emma Emma. _

_And what they don't know is that when he finished his confession—maybe it is a confession, for Emma is the savior, and for there to be a savior, there must have been a sin committed, yes?—when he finished his confession, he pressed the scroll against his nose and breathed in deeply, over and over, taking into his lungs, his blood, his cells the magic of the ink, casting a spell upon himself for which the name Emma would be the trigger. _

_And what they don't know and never will learn is that when the trigger activates the spell, no matter what the Final Curse has done to him, no matter how intricate and detailed the fake life that Regina has created for him, Rumplestiltskin will rise again. _

_Rumplestiltskin the immortal._

"His footprints ended where the SUV was parked."

Gold pries his eyes open. "He couldn't have gotten into the vehicle; there's nowhere he could've hidden in it. He must have brushed out his tracks. Kid's seen too many TV westerns."

Slightly kneels. He wants so badly not to let Petey down; he wants to do something useful, however small, so he withdraws Gold's Armani handkerchief from his Armani jacket and dabs at the blood seeping from the wound. "You want some water?"

Gold shakes his head.

"I might be able to find some booze."

Gold tries to smile to reassure his caretaker. "The only thing worse than a poisoned imp is a drunk poisoned imp." The poison in him is urging his body to shut down: he fights back, ordering his lungs to take in air, his heart to keep beating, his brain to keep thinking. "Mr. Slightly, will you run down to the captain's quarters. On the desk you'll find paper, ink and a quill. Please bring them."

"Yes, sir." The lad clatters off.

"Good lad," Gold mutters. He wonders if this Lost Boy has a father somewhere.

It's time, Gold realizes, to consider death.

This is a most remarkable thing for him. From all appearances, he is a slight, middle-aged man, and one would assume that death is a subject he has considered before; statistically, he is probably less than twenty-five years from it. But whatever shell his spirit has been poured into by the Final Curse, he's still Rumplestiltskin, just in a more mundane package, and the thought of death has not occurred to him at all in the past two centuries.

In the first fifty years of the Dark Curse, when he had considered his immortality, he'd run the gamut of emotions. Initially, he'd felt sheer delight, for now no bully—not ogre nor knight nor soldier nor king nor sorcerer—could touch him. But as the humans around him grew and aged and died, he began to feel burdened by his unique gift, for he could do none of those things, and when Belle entered his life and for a short time created in him fanciful dreams of a lasting relationship, he came to understand how completely separate he was. Had he remained with her—Gods, if only he had!—he would have had to employ magic to give the illusion that he was aging along with her, and when Regina informed him Belle's time on earth had passed, he grieved not only for her, that she'd suffered at her own father's hands, but he also grieved for himself, for he had no hope of ever joining her in the afterlife. It was then he fell into periods of heavy depression, becoming drunk on grief when he discovered he couldn't become drunk on alcohol.

But the Final Curse was his blessing. Once he'd discovered how to bottle True Love—the curse's antidote—he then threw himself into his work, for now, perversely, he had hope once again.

And now the Fates are screwing him over once more. Three centuries of work and waiting have come to fruition, he's been rewarded with the return of Bae to his life and rewarded a second time, unexpectedly, with a grandchild—and no sooner has that come to pass than, in the two days he's spent beyond the reach of his magic—two days without the protection of immortality—Hook has found him.

He fingers the gaping wound in his chest, weeping blood and poison. Hook has found him and killed him.

**Storybrooke 2:35 pm**

Dove is speeding as he whips the Yukon off the highway and onto the access road; he slows only slightly as he turns onto Bleaker Street. With no traffic to impede him and the town's only officer of the law in his backseat, he's apparently not too concerned with legalities today. At the intersection with Main Street the stop light's red. Emma leans forward and pokes his shoulder. "Run it!"

He does. He makes a left at the library onto Lachlan Avenue—and then he slows down because he has no choice: the street is filled with people. He slams the brake on and his passengers pile out before he's shifted into park. Emma runs ahead, seeking her parents in the center of the crowd, with Dove hot on her heels, and the Lost Boys whoop as they fall in with the disorganized army.

Dove finds Snow before Emma does; by the time Emma arrives, the vial has already changed hands. "Good luck, Ms. Swan," Dove offers before he runs back to the Yukon.

"Don't stop for any red lights," Emma advises, watching him go: for such a big man, he moves awfully fast. In the few minutes they've been together, he's earned Emma's respect, and by extension, her estimation of his employer has inched up as well.

Dove pauses in his run just long enough to squeeze Bae's shoulder. "Good luck, Master Baelfire."

"Careful with that antidote," Bae says, but he realizes his words are needless: Dove will guard that vial with his life. "You comin' back after you deliver it to the doctor?"

Dove shakes his head. "I'm going back to Mr. Gold. He told me to stay with you, but—first time I ever disobeyed him." Dove shrugs with a lame smile. "He can give me hell for it later."

A muscle in Bae's cheek twitches. "Tell him, if you get back in time. . . tell him I kicked ass in his name."

Dove now grins fully as he resumes his run to the car. "He'll like that. Tear 'em a new one, Master Baelfire."

**Jolly Roger 2:37 pm**

"Mr. Slightly."

"Yes, sir?"

"I may not have a choice in the manner of my death, but I will have a choice in its location. Please remove me from this damned ship."

The young man tucks Gold's cane under one arm and slides the other around Gold's back. He takes most of the pawnbroker's weight onto himself as he walks him down the dock. As soon as Gold's Ferragamos hit the beach, he drops to the sand, exhausted. "One moment, please."

Gold raises his right hand and yanks off the ring that he's worn every day of his life in this world. When Regina had designed Mr. Gold—the shaggy hair, the tailored suits, the tailored speech and the Scottish accent, and absence of a christian name—she'd thrown in the bum ankle and the ring too, without knowing why. Just a whim, she'd assumed; but in reality, Rumplestiltskin had planted those notions into her head.

The ankle had been a voluntary payment on the curse: Rumple had hoped if he made enough offerings, the magic would accept them as sufficient payment and extract no more from him. Who could blame him for trying to bargain with the Fates? He'd already paid heavily, with the surrender of Regina and Belle.

The ring, however, was an insurance policy. Regina thought she had seen it for the first time on the Genie's finger, just one of many trinkets he wore—but that was a false memory planted by one who had studied false memories for decades. The ring had actually come from the North Country, a gift from a young sorcerer who received some training from the Dark One, and it held special properties. In a land without magic, it appeared to be just a lovely opal, a bold choice for a man whose tastes in all other matters ran conservative.

Had there been a jeweler in Storybrooke, perhaps he or she could have revealed something of the myriad legends associated with opal that would have also revealed something about the ring's wearer, for in this world, the opal was indeed a stone of conflicting perceptions: thought by ancient Egyptians to possess powers of healing, by Romans as the token of hope, by medieval Europeans as granting the wearer the ability to turn invisible. Yet in later centuries, the opal devolved into a symbol of ill fortune—and some even believed it a cursed stone. The opal was not unlike Rumplestiltskin himself: a powerful being upon whom the desperate projected their hopes, their superstitions, their fears and their hatred.

It was the ancient Greeks who came closer to the mark, however; for in the lands with magic, opals were a sort of calling card, a stone to be worn only by those with the gift of prophecy. And on a practical level, the stone was known to change color in the presence of magic and to warn the wearer of the presence of poison.

Gold snorts at that last thought. Right now, his opal, normally a sky blue that reminds him of Belle's eyes, bears a red crescent. Too little information, too late. But the stone might still be of some use.

"Mr. Slightly."

"Yes, sir?"

Gold offers him the ring. "Put this ring on and take a hike."

"Excuse me?"

"Walk toward the road and watch the stone. When you see it become purple, note the landmarks before you and mark that spot." Gold struggles to catch his breath.

"What does the purple mean?"

"It means, Mr. Slightly, you've entered a land of magic. And it means I dare not pass that line."

_This isn't a room. Not by the standards of the world he lives in now, and certainly not by the standards of the castle he inhabited in the old world. It's really just a loft, but it boasts a straw mattress covered in sheepskin, and a finely stitched fuzzy toy lamb holds pride of place in the center of the mattress. His ankle is throbbing by the time he reaches the top of the ladder; he drops onto the mattress and stretches his leg out to rest. He feels safe here, safer than he's felt in a lifetime. Rested, he picks up the lamb and holds it in his lap, remembering the hours he'd spent hunched over it, sewing in the dim light of the nighttime embers, pushing to finish it in time for Bae's name day. Only the children of nobles receive name day gifts, Milah scoffed; how will the neighbor children treat Bae if you spoil him like a princeling? But Rumple clung to his intentions, and on the fourth day of the first month after harvest, when Bae came down the ladder for breakfast, this lamb had been waiting beside his bowl. _

_Rumplestiltskin makes the lamb dance in his lap, as he did so many times for Bae. He starts to smile—and then a shout, and another, and another, coming from the walls, all four of them, startle him and he drops the lamb. _

_**It's true you ran.**_

_**You told me she was dead.**_

_**I'm frightened.**_

_**I want my father.**_

_**You hurt people all the time.**_

_**She was mute!**_

_**Papa, please!**_

_**You coward!**_

_**Get out of my apartment.**_

_**You have no idea what I've lived with.**_

_**Time's up.**_

_**Time's up.**_

_He shoves his hands against his ears. The wound in his chest rips apart, splitting his breastbone, and a foul fluid spurts from his heart. "Bae," he cries weakly. "Don't leave me, Bae."_

_**Time's up.**_

_**Tick tock.**_

**Storybrooke 2:38 pm**

"Oh my," Cora says. "No more time to dilly-dally."

The first "s" on the dagger has vanished.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

**A/N. Many thanks, dearies, for your suggestions and comments on this story. If you've kept count, you know who's going to be the victor over Cora, but I think I'll have a few surprises in showing _how_ that comes about, coming in the next chapter. But first, sweet sadness intervenes (if you've read any of my other stories, you'll know how much I love Rumple-Gold, so let Chapter 11 lead you not into despair).**

* * *

**Storybrooke 2:38 pm**

"Emma!" Snow's bow, slung over her shoulder, pokes her daughter in the chest as they embrace, but Emma doesn't care; she's just relieved to see her folks again. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine. All these people. . . ." She glances around at the faces, each with a different expression: eager, anxious, worried, fearful, but all of them determined. "Must be fifty, sixty people here." Some of whom, even though she's the sheriff, she's never met.

"Excuse me," Bae interrupts, offering Snow his hand in greeting. "Hello, I'm"—he hesitates slightly, then raises his chin in pride. "I'm Baelfire. Rumplestiltskin's son."

Emma shoots him a glance that means _good for you_. Then it's time to get to work. Her father begins shaping the mob into troops. "They're not limited to this building," he points out. "They can transport themselves anywhere, if they decide they're not ready to fight. We need to cover every place they might run to: Regina's mansion, City Hall, the Mills Mausoleum. I want squads at each of these places. We'll need another group to look for Henry. Make sure your phones are powered on and that you've got Archie's number. Archie, you're our communications liaison. Keep everyone informed of what's going on."

"Before you go, I got some protection for you." Emma doesn't want to do this. What if she screws it up and turns someone into a roach or something? Or worse—and she won't allow this thought to rise out of her subconscious—what if she finds she likes the thrill and the power of conjuring magic? She's always suspected there's a fine line between herself and Regina: what if the magic blurs that line? If Gold's correct, the magic sleeping beneath her skin is stronger than Blue's; with Gold gone, there would no one to stop a newly minted magic-throwing monster.

A hand falls on her shoulder—David's. Somewhere in the crowd she hears Mary Margaret's voice rise, giving instructions to the archers. And somewhere out there, but at least not here on the battleground, is Henry.

Emma tightens her mouth. There will be no new monsters minted today. David, Mary Margaret and Henry will see to that. They'll kick Princess Emma's royal fanny if she gets uppity with her magic.

So as her father organizes the squads and appoints leaders for each, she casts upon each group the protection spell Gold taught her. They tell her that her magic tickles as they set off on their appointed missions. She warns them that the spell is only temporary and that if Regina or Cora expels enough energy, the magic shield she's set around them will be broken. In war there are no guarantees, even with magic.

As she conjures shields for the Lost Boys, she meets Neal's eyes. It's one of those life-flashing-before-your-eyes moments: all together, she sees their first meeting, their first meal together, their first kiss, their last kiss. He's the last of the Lost Boys to come forward to accept her magic. She wonders if he's being chivalrous if he's reluctant to allow magic into his body; probably both. Like her, he's been running from magic. "You have a son to get to know," she reminds him in a whisper, and then he accepts the magic, because he accepts the responsibility of living for the benefit of his son.

Her parents are the last to receive her magic. Along with shields, she gives them enchanted swords that can slice through magic—and wound possessors of magic. In Mary Margaret's eyes, as she squeezes Emma's hand in encouragement, is pride and affection. In David's eyes, as he kisses Emma's forehead, is confidence and cunning. With her spell protecting them, they spin and finish the business of planning the attack.

Emma takes a moment to dash off a text to Gold: _Henry? _

There's no answer.

**Jolly Roger 2:40 pm**

"Mr. Slightly."

The young man pauses in his running to answer, "Yes, sir?" He's covered the distance between the road and the ship a dozen times, bringing water, blankets, a pillow, anything to make his patient more comfortable. Gold thanks him each time; he doesn't tell the lad that his body is now too numb to feel comfort or pain.

Gold swivels his head. His eyesight has narrowed to a pinprick: he can see pretty well those things that are straight in front, but that's all. He hasn't told Slightly that either. If he were to crawl on his belly just a yard to the west, he'd cross over the line Slightly has demarcated: his magic would return in a flood, and he could transport himself into the pawnshop, where he could save himself.

But that's not what would happen. The moment any part of him—a finger, a toe, the tip of his nose—crossed that line, his dagger would heat up, warning Cora, if she happened to be touching it, of his presence within the reach of magic. He has no doubt that she's touching the dagger right now, that she hasn't let it out of her clutches. Once he crossed that line, she need only speak his name. In less than the time it would take for her to exhale, the magic would deposit him at her feet. His head would bow to his new master, his back would be exposed, and she need only thrust the dagger between his shoulder blades.

He stares at the uneven line Slightly has drawn in the sand.

"Want some water? Another blanket?" Slightly drops to his knees beside Gold, tucks the blanket in tighter.

"The paper. Quill." Gold points toward Slightly's shirt pocket, where the quill resides. "I have a few messages."

"Oh sure, but. . . " Slightly picks up Gold's cell phone, which has been lying in the sand beside the sheets of parchment from Hook's desk. "Wouldn't it be better to call?"

"Legal documents require a signature," Gold says.

Then Slightly gets it. "Oh." He frowns at the phone. "There's a text from Emma. It just says 'Henry?'"

"Answer her, please, Mr. Slightly." Gold rests his eyes as the lad types a quick message. An immediate response comes back and Slightly reads it aloud: "'Gold?'"

Gold gives a crooked grin. "Tell her 'You'll know it when I go.'"

Slightly grins back and sends the message. "Now, that letter you wanted me to write?"

"Write this: 'Ms. Ilene Baker, President, Storybrooke Savings and Loan. As we discussed last week, I wish for you to be the executor of my estate. You will find my will in my safe deposit box, all in good order and recently updated. I trust you will carry out my final wishes in accordance with the will. Thank you, Ilene. It has been a pleasure doing business with you all these years." Gold accepts the quill from Slightly and adds his signature to the bottom of the page: "Mr. Gold." No first name.

"One more, please, Mr. Slightly."

"Yes, sir." Slightly starts on a fresh sheet of parchment.

"'My darling Belle. . . . '"

**Storybrooke 2:42 pm**

"It's time," Cora announces, showing Regina the dagger. The first "t" and "i" have vanished. "He's fading rapidly now." She begins to pace. "Why haven't they done anything yet? That Princess Snowflake is so indecisive."

"Mother, please, I'm trying to hear what they're saying." Regina is concentrating on the image in the mirror. But it's not really the combatants' conversations that she's interested in: she's preoccupied with finding one small, tousle-haired needle in the haystack of humanity now blocking Lachlan Avenue.

"I don't want to be trapped up here when they attack," Cora complains. "I don't like this place." She folds her arms around herself. "It has a bad aura. . . an aura of entrapment." She glances at Regina's reflection in the mirror. "Something you did to your beau, I presume?"

"Shh."

"We can't wait any more for that boy of yours to appear. We need to start this battle _now_. Another five minutes and we'll lose the Dark One forever."

"No," Regina wheels about, her teeth bared. "You won't ruin this for me. He has to see them attack me first. I have to kill Emma and Snow in self-defense. We wait for Henry."

Cora checks the dagger again and groans. "The last 'l' is gone."

A quick, slight pain, like the prick of a needle, strikes at Regina's heart as a voice coming from deep within her brain and far away in time calls to her: _poor little wee one_.

"At least let me poke at them a little." Cora turns toward the kitchen and twists her wrist in a counterclockwise motion. The metal cage and the mouse within disappear and are replaced by a thoroughly confused Belle, shivering in her hospital gown. Cora tilts her head critically, studying the patient, then flicks her hand and conjures clothing for her: a baggy gray sweatsuit. Then Cora rethinks the makeover. "No, she'll attract more sympathy the way she was." And the witch returns the patient to the flimsy hospital gown.

Nails digging into Belle's bare arm, Cora drags her toward the window. Instinctively—and foolishly—Belle seizes an empty flower vase and smashes it against Cora's face. "Stupid girl!" Cora snaps, letting go long enough to brush the ceramic shards from her hair.

Belle's mouth falls open, for there's no damage whatsoever to Cora, not a single laceration or bruise on that elegant face. Belle takes a step back. "What _are_ you?"

"Annoyed." Cora throws her hand into the air and iron bands lock themselves around Belle's waist and arms. "And that's something, I assure you, you don't want me to be." Cora pushes Belle toward the window, throws open the drapes and—because she still can't figure out how to unlatch the window, employs magic to make the glass vanish. Cora grabs a handful of Belle's hair and yanks. "Call out to them." She pushes Belle forward so that the girl is leaning out the empty window.

"I'm here!" Belle calls, but her attention is not on the crowd but rather the distance between her and the ground. If she allowed herself to fall, she would survive it. . .

"We're coming for you, Belle!" a tall young man shouts back. "Stay back!" He points to the north and a group of his followers run in that direction; he sends another group south. He and a dozen others run up the stairs, shouting their battle cry.

Cora permits them to get halfway up. Then she hisses in Belle's ear, "Say hello to dear Rumple for me" before pushing her out the window.

**Jolly Roger 2:50 pm**

"Mr. G.?" Slightly prompts.

Gold lifts his eyelids. But it's not the Lost Boy—his caretaker, his scribe—he sees, but rather beyond the boy's shoulder, the gray-suited Mr. Dove (Gold has always insisted his employee wear a business suit, and he gave an ample clothing allowance to make certain of it), and beyond Mr. Dove, parked just a hand's width behind the Magic Line, an ambulance. As Dove crouches in the sand across from Slightly, Whale and two EMTs pour out of the ambulance.

"Disobeying my orders again, Mr. Dove?" But there's no anger in Gold's voice. Dove exchanges a glance with Slightly: there's no emotion in Gold's voice at all; the man hasn't the strength for it.

"You may dock my pay, sir."

Whale grabs his medical bag and passes the blue vial off to one of the EMTs. In a few strides he's standing over the patient, and Slightly edges away to make room for Whale to kneel. "Ah, Doctor," Gold sighs. "I knew one day you'd kneel before me."

"You're the one who came crawling this time," Whale huffs, applying a blood pressure cuff. "Something about needing science?"

"A moment of weakness," Gold shrugs. "Ignore it."

"Well, as long as I'm here, you won't mind if I take your vitals, will you? Just to get me sense of purpose."

Gold doesn't answer. His eyelids drop and the Lost Boy exchanges a worried glance with the chauffer. On his lap is Hook's ledger, offering support for the sheets of parchment on which Slightly has been taking dictation. The irony is not lost on the Lost Boy that, in the end, Hook is providing a bit of support for the Crocodile. Slightly swallows hard as he reviews what he's written, and he frets because the letter is unfinished and Belle, whom he feels he almost knows now through her beloved's words, will never know Rumplestiltskin's last thoughts for her.

_Rumple always liked this cruck house. It's small, but it's the biggest in the village, and it's built tight and solid, keeping the heat in during the winter and the rain out during the spring. But what he has always liked most about this house is that it belonged to him and Bae. Not him and Milah—this is the home he bought after he acquired magic and had learned he could spin straw into gold. _

_That had come about one idle night, after he'd burned every article of clothing Milah had left behind and smashed all the dishes that she'd brought into the marriage. He'd drunk enough wine to make a camel stagger, enough wine to embarrass Bae and make him seek refuge with a neighbor, and yet Rumplestiltskin wasn't even tipsy. After Bae had run off, Rumple sat down at the spinning wheel, just for something to do; he certainly didn't need to toil any more, now that he had magic. When he ran out of wool, instead of simply conjuring some, he'd grabbed a handful of straw and fashioned a leader. As he spun he thought about Milah in the arms of that smirking pirate, and when he looked at the thread in his hands he discovered he'd somehow produced gold. "Who gets the last laugh, pirate," he spat. "You have to kill and plunder to acquire your gold." Too bad Jones would never know this._

_With his freshly spun gold he'd bought the biggest cruck house in the village. For the first time, Bae would have his own room with a proper bed and a trunk for his expanding wardrobe. Rumple hired a housekeeper to keep the home clean (and to give Bae a mother figure of sorts), and then he began roaming far and wide to buy books to help him control his powers. Though he didn't need to work for a living, he seemed to have less time these days for Bae, but Honora made up for that. . . didn't she? _

_And then, in a matter of weeks, it all came crashing down._

_Once Bae was gone, Rumple quit roaming, quit reading, quit doing everything except drinking and spinning. He couldn't even work up a good rage any more. _

_One morning Lorena stormed in from next door. She grabbed his shirt—she was nearly six feet tall and used to getting her way, and more importantly to Rumple, Bae had adored her. She yanked him out of bed, threw him to the floor, then dumped a bucket of ice-crusted water on him. "You stink," she announced. "Your house is filthy. Get up and wash yourself. Change your clothes—you got enough of 'em. You do what I say and I'll cook you a decent breakfast."_

"_No one talks to the Dark One that way," he argued, but his stomach growled loud enough for her to hear and her lips curled in triumph._

_He dragged himself to his feet._

_When she left that afternoon, his house and his body were clean, the kettle over his hearth was full, and begrudgingly he'd started work on a vague plan to design that curse the Blue Fairy had implied would lead him to Bae. But first, he had to make certain he never let self-pity drag him off-track again, and so he sat down at his kitchen table with a stack of parchment and a box of charcoals and he made himself a North Star. It took seventeen tries until he got it right, but once his Star was finished and he'd set it on his mantle, he was protected against the weaker aspects of himself, the depression, the hurt, the disappointment, the heartbreak that would have led him off his path and into the crevasse of self-pity. _

_When the summons from Princess Ella came, he rolled up his North Star and tucked it carefully into his dragon-skin jacket, so that it would accompany him on the journey ahead: the journey to Charming's prison, that would place him in the perfect position to learn the Savior's name, for, locked away in an escape-proof, magic-proof prison, the Dark One was powerless, was he not? Not really the Dark One any more, just a crazy, dirty, staved imp. So Snow need not fear talking to him, need not fear releasing her unborn daughter's name to him. The name of the girl would make it possible for him to find Bae._

_Now, three centuries later, he's back in this cruck house, his and Bae's. Back there, in the world without magic, Bae lives, a full-grown man, a man of cleverness and competence, a man who, like Rumple, has a set of values no one else can understand. A man filled with love and anger. A man who will forgive his father, but not in time, because time's up. _

_Rumplestiltskin seats himself at the kitchen table and reaches into his dragon-skin jacket for his North Star: the portrait of Baelfire. It's a good drawing, better than any he'd ever done before or since; his most nearly perfect work of art. It accomplished what he intended it to accomplish. He's hopes that when he's gone, Bae will find it and understand. _

_He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder, though his peripheral vision tells him no one stands behind him. His hair ruffles as a breath tickles his ear. He smells roses. Her patient, forgiving voice whispers in his ear, "Love is how we defeat all enemies." In his thoughts he adds, Even death._

_Rumple has accomplished the work of a lifetime. He rises, peels off his dragon-skin; the time for costumes is done. In his closet, behind the Armani suits, he finds what he will wear now and he slips into it: a finely spun white shroud. Leaving Bae's portait on the kitchen table, he walks from his cruck house, closing the door behind him._

_He kept his vow to Bae; he can let go now. _

_**Time's up.**_


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

**Storybrooke 2:50 pm**

Arms bound in iron bands, Belle tumbles from the second-story window of the Camelot Apartments just as her motley crew of rescuers charge up the cracked concrete stairs.

"Mother, don't be throwing away our collateral," Regina complains.

"Crap!" Emma exclaims. In her head she scrambles for a formula to conjure a spell, but she comes up empty. Then Belle shrieks and Emma stops trying to figure it out: she sets her sword aside and reaches out her hands. It's a dumb thing to do: there's no way Emma can catch Belle; even if she were strong enough, she isn't within arms' reach of the falling girl. It's dumb, but Emma's brain isn't operating in the moment; her heart is.

And so, apparently, is her magic. Shooting out from Emma's finger tips come long silky yellow strands that wrap themselves around Belle and weave themselves together, forming a net. In mid-air, Belle hovers in the net. "Holy crap, I'm Spider-Man," Emma breathes. She slowly lowers her hands and the net lowers itself to the ground. David scrambles down the stairs and slices through the net with his sword. Collecting her wits, Emma wishes the iron bands away, and they obey her. Belle stands shuddering, her wild eyes twitching between the window from which she's just dropped to the woman who saved her. Archie sweeps in, taking Belle under his sheltering arm and leading her to safety.

If indeed safety exists anywhere in Storybrooke today.

"Emma," Snow gasps in wonder. But there isn't time to hash this out, as David reminds them, storming back up the stairs and kicking down the apartment door. He ducks aside as an energy wave bursts out, sending the dwarves tumbling.

Emma glances at her hands: they don't hurt or burn or anything. She wonders what price will be paid, and when, for this withdrawal she's just made from the Universal Bank of Magic. But she just saved a life, and she feels good, damn good, and ready for more. She bursts through the door that her father has kicked open.

Standing there in Sidney's living room, surrounded by photos of Regina, are the witch herself and her mother, dressed head to toe in black. The sorceresses' hands glow and vibrate with deep purple magic as they stand there amid the trim pieces of Ethan Allen furniture, the flat-screen TV, the wall-to-wall carpeting. It's so absurd, this collision of worlds represented by the contents of this apartment, that Emma wants to laugh. But that's her life now, so as her father Prince Charming and her mother Snow White and her ex-lover Peter Pan position themselves beside her to face down the Evil Queens, Princess Emma reminds the enemy in her sheriffy voice, "We don't have to do this, Regina. Nobody has to die here." She realizes that only death will resolve this conflict, but as a law enforcer she is obliged to sue for peace.

"That's right, we don't." Regina's voice is buttery. "Drop your swords and we'll think about letting you live."

Cora rolls her eyes in disgust and clicks her tongue. "Oh, for Hell's sake. Let's get on with it." She wiggles her glowing finger and Belle appears in a puff of purple smoke. Cora seizes her arm and pushes her in front; to get to Cora, the Charmings will have to go through Belle.

"I can play this game all day." Emma snaps her fingers and Belle vanishes.

Cora tilts her head, as though listening for something no one else can hear. Emma wonders if she's part dog. "Did you kill her? I can't sense her presence anywhere."

"Protection spell," Emma snaps, silently adding a thank-you to her teacher. "But I guess you only know how to hurt people, don't you?"

"Someone's been teaching you since we last met," Cora surmises. "My guess is, as weak as he is, he didn't get far in the lessons."

"Let's find out, shall we?" Regina conjures one of her favorites, a fireball, and lobs it—not at Emma, but at Snow, and Cora is just a fraction of a second behind, lobbing her own fireball at David.

As Bae runs forward, slicing his enchanted sword at Regina, Emma lifts her arms straight out and two baseball bats appear, one each in front of her parents; the bats connect with the fireballs, sending them flying into the wall behind the sorceresses and bringing some of the framed Regina photos crashing down.

"Home run!" David applauds as he sets his sights on Cora.

Just before Bae's sword strikes her, Regina vanishes, then reappears behind Bae. "Who _are_ you? You don't belong here."

"I sure the hell do," Bae wheels about, both hands on the hilt of his sword, raising it again for another slice. "The Enchanted Forest was my home long before it was yours—dearie."

Regina's perfectly mascaraed eyes widen. "Oh, so you're him—Rumple's weakness." She conjures iron bands that snap around Bae's body, locking him in. "I'm going to have fun with you."

Bae pushes out with his arms, and the bands pop open, then vanish. "Not as much as you think."

"That's coming from Emma," Regina says. "She has a protection spell on each of them, I suppose. For shame, Rumple: didn't you teach this girl the laws of supply and demand? The more protection spells you have to maintain, Emma dear, the faster you'll drain your resources."

Cora has sidestepped David's attack. She now studies him just as her daughter studies Emma. "She's enchanted the swords as well. She may possess a lot of raw power, but with all these little stunts she's going to burn out in less than ten minutes."

"Long enough for us to dispose of—"

"Stop this!"

Every head in the room turns toward the threshold, where Henry, a box tucked under his arm, stands. "You're going to kill each other!"

"Henry! How did you get here?" Bae gapes. "It's seven miles from the ship."

But Emma knows. There are no visible signs, but she can feel them, the vibrating coils of energy surrounding her son. The magic in her blood tingles, causing the hair at the nape of her neck to stand on end, and something ancient deep within her—deep within her magic—stirs. Henry transported himself here. Her son has magic.

"Henry, get out of here," David barks, "before you get hurt." And Snow moves to the boy's side, setting her hands on his shoulders to turn him around, but Henry breaks loose and runs to the middle of the room as Snow calls out, "Come back!"

"Mom?"

For a moment Emma assumes he's addressing her, but when he takes another step forward, toward Regina, she feels a stab of jealousy. "Henry, come to me," Emma urges. "You're what she wants. If she takes you, she'll be free to kill the rest of us."

"She won't," Henry says over his shoulder, his puppy eyes fixed on Regina, who is now crouching, her arms offering a hug. "She's good, I know it: she won't hurt anybody."

"That's right, Henry," Regina purrs. "They don't know how I've changed, but you do. You see? _They_ attacked _me_. I'm just defending myself. Come with me. That's all I want. Take my hand and we'll walk out of here and that will be the end of this battle. I promise."

Henry's head swings around toward Cora. "Make her stop. Make her drop the dagger."

Cora's disgust is written all over her face, but her syrupy voice denies it: "I'm just protecting us all from Rumplestiltskin. You know, don't you, Henry, how evil he is? You've just come from him. I'm sure he told you all sorts of lies, but—"

Henry looks back at Regina, who has stood up but is still holding out her arms, still hoping. "Mom, don't let her kill my grandpa."

"I have no intention of hurting David," Regina assures the boy. "In fact, I like him. Perhaps you could convince him to lower his sword and let us leave in peace."

A low voice corrects Regina's misunderstanding. "He doesn't mean Charming," Cora says slowly.

Bae grins. "Right. Sorry we weren't fully introduced, Your Majesty." He makes a mock bow toward Regina. "Baelfire, father of Henry, and son of Rumplestiltskin."

"Crap," Regina gasps—and Emma grins, thinking how much the mayor is beginning to sound like the sheriff.

"Take Henry, Regina!" Cora orders. "If he really is of the Dark One's lineage!"

"Henry doesn't lie," Regina says.

"Then grab him! The grandchild of True Love _and_ the Dark One—his powers will be tremendous. We must have him!"

"No," Regina argues. "It has to be his choice." Her face softens as she watches Henry. "It has to be because he loves me."

Cora rolls her eyes. "Enough of this nonsense." She points a gloved finger at Henry, and the boy begins to rise in the air.

"Mother!"

Emma starts firing off lightning and hail at Cora, but the sorceress ignores it all, her own protective shield repelling the attack. Snow's arrows and David's sword meet the same resistance. She continues to push Henry up and up, out of the reach of Bae, who makes a wild grab for the boy's legs.

"Let me down," Henry insists. He fixes Cora with a firm stare. "If you're my mom's mom, that means you're my grandma too."

Cora freezes for just a moment. Whatever she's thinking, she shakes it off. Even as the attacks upon her continue and Regina argues with her, she drags Henry forward.

And suddenly she stops. Her magic breaks off, causing Henry to fall. The box the boy was carrying slips out of his grasp and tumbles, landing open at Snow's feet. Snow kneels, picking it up. . .

**Jolly Roger 2:54 pm**

_This is the last room. The marrow in his bones tells him so. He enters without reluctance, without dread, even without curiosity, just an all-consuming weariness. He is, after all, nearly 400 years old. _

_Like the others, the room is light and airy; unlike the others, it's completely empty. Not a stick of furniture, not a nail in the walls, not a rug on the shiny, hard floor. Not a sound, not even his own footsteps, not even his own breath. Since there is nothing here, there is obviously nothing for him to do here, so he assumes this is an anteroom of sorts; wherever he's supposed to be and whatever he's supposed to do next must lie beyond. He finds an open door leading from the room and he passes through it, into a long corridor lined with other airy, empty rooms. He continues to walk._

**Storybrooke 2:54 pm**

All action and all sound come to a standstill as the combatants try to figure out what's happening. Cora's face has turned white. She lowers her left hand, with which she had been controlling Henry, and it joins her right hand, carrying the dagger up to her line of vision.

"The Song of the Marines" breaks the silence. Bae slides his hand into his hoodie and withdraws his phone. He glances at it, then looks hard at it, his free hand rising to cover his mouth.

It's Cora who makes the announcement: "Rumplestiltskin is dead."

**?**

_He has walked a great distance, he thinks, and a long time. It's annoying that his sense of time has left him: he used to be able to tell you, just by consulting his bones, what the time was, within two minutes of accuracy. Punctuality mattered to both Rumplestiltskin and Gold. _

_He has come far and he's tired, his ankle aching, and he has no cane or walking sticking stick to aid him. Still, every room he's passed has been empty. He's called out several times, but no one has answered; his voice doesn't echo. _

_He's so worn out, he can't continue. He stumbles into one of the hundreds of empty rooms and drops to the floor, his back to a wall. When his mind begins to work again, he begins to understand where he is. This is his eternity: no possessions, no people. _

_This is his Hell._


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

**Storybrooke 2:55 pm**

All action ceases. For better or worse—and half the folks in Sidney's apartment are experiencing, to their surprise, some doubts as to which category this news falls into—a major player in their worlds, both the fairytale one and this one, has died. Life has changed, and Storybrooke only recently became a place that experiences change.

Emma and Snow exchange a look. What's between them lends credence to the nature part of the nature/nurture debate: though Snow didn't raise Emma, their bond is strong enough that they sometimes find themselves thinking the same thought, and right now, as Emma looks into Snow's eyes, she knows that bond is at work: they're both worried about how Rumplestiltskin's death will affect the delicate balance of power in this community, this rather insular community of people who seem fated to be together, whether they choose to be or not. Until this moment, power has rested on a triangle: the clearly good, the clearly evil, and the perplexing Rumple-Gold. Whenever one side seemed likely to gain the upper hand, Gold would bolster the losing side, and the battle would live on. Now it seems likely that the war will soon be won, and with the burden of fair fighting on one side versus most of the magic on the other, Snow and Emma feel a bit shaky.

And if Snow or Henry were to ask her, Emma would have to admit she's going to miss Gold. As she looks at her mother, she suspects Snow will miss Rumplestiltskin.

Emma glances to her left, where Neal stands stock-still, staring at his phone as though he's waiting for a follow-up text: _j/k! Your dad's fine._ She reaches out a hand, touching his shoulder reassuringly, then jerks her hand back because her fingertips are glowing with magic and she's too inexperienced to know what that magic will do to him, if anything. Transfixed by his phone, he doesn't seem to notice her. He rubs the back of his hand over his eyes. Later—if Cora and Regina allow there to be a "later"—Emma will take him aside and listen, because he will need to talk and because she still cares, Tamara or no Tamara.

Regina has to know for sure. It should be clear enough, from the anguish on Baelfire's face, the fury and disappointment in Cora's, that Gold is gone, but she has to see some proof. What if the text message is a lie, what if Cora's misinterpreted the disappearance of Rumple's name from the dagger? She throws out a command to the nearest crow: get me information. The crow caws—it's too far away for Regina to hear it, but she feels its call in her bloodstream. The question is carried from bird to bird until the answer comes back and she finally accepts the news. Her eyes burn, and to her surprise moisture pools in them and her throat tightens.

She didn't expect this, didn't expect this at all, these tears for him. She bites the inside of her cheek, distracting herself with a different kind of pain. She's not crying for _him_, certainly not. . . not that scaly-skinned, manic imp who made a monster of her, nor that reptile-blooded, depressive misanthropist who'd never lift a finger for anyone except his darling Belle. She despised the man and hated the imp. Miss him? Don't be ridiculous. It's just that he's always been there; even when she didn't know his name or his connection to her family, she always kind of sensed his presence in the shadows. . . .Her instincts were probably right: he is—he _was_ (she must remember to use the past tense now) just the kind to spy on people. He was just the kind to pick out some unsuspecting innocent and spy on them from afar until the opportunity to use them arose.

He wasn't deserving of her respect, let alone any warmer feelings. Still her magic whispers to her, and she recognizes the whisper as a memory: _Poor little wee one_.

An uninhibited cry interrupts the stunned silence. Henry has pulled himself into a sitting position and he's openly, unashamedly sobbing. Both of his mothers know why: he's not injured, not even afraid of the war he's rushed into the center of; somehow, the boy is either childish enough or farsighted enough to believe that good will win—and that everyone in this room has the potential to join Team Good. He's crying in grief for a man who's always made him nervous, suspicious—and yet whom he's somehow loved, long before he knew Gold was his grandpa.

What Henry does next is just about the worst thing he could do, in Regina's opinion. He lifts his wet face to her and asks, "Mom, why did you let my grandpa die?"

Regina bites her tongue. She knows Henry will never accept any excuse she might give, for in his mind, there can be no excuse for murder—and what she and Cora have done constitutes murder, even though they didn't want Rumple to die (not yet, not until they'd had a little fun with him and taken his power). Still, she pleads a technicality: "Honey, he was poisoned. It's Hook's fault, not ours. See?" She produces the blue vial (the fake blue vial). "I was going to give him this antidote. I wanted to help him. But he wouldn't give me a chance."

"That's a lie," Henry says, dully. "Will you kill me too for my power?"

Regina's voice quavers. "Henry. . . ."

David sheathes his sword, sweeps in and picks up the boy, starts to run out with him, but Regina's magic, even on auto-pilot, responds to her priorities and streaks out across the apartment, knocking over a rocking chair and a table lamp. When it reaches David, the magic splits itself in two, circles him, and one arm of the magic lifts Henry away, carrying the boy to Regina's side, while the other arm wraps itself about David's body. Emma dashes in, sword raised above her head, growling, and with all her strength—far more than is necessary, really—she slashes the sword through the coils of magic, freeing her father, who drops to his knees, then scrambles for his feet and his sword. Father and daughter approach Regina from opposite directions. "Let Henry go," Emma demands.

Henry tries to run, but the carpet beneath his feet suddenly shoots up in waist-high tendrils that wrap around his legs. He uses the only weapon he has left: Regina's feelings for him. "Mom! It doesn't have to be this way. You love me! Prove it to them—let me go." He wriggles under Regina's magic.

A low, subhuman groan cuts across the room, and Regina is momentarily distracted; she glances toward the source. If she didn't know better, she would swear her mother is overcome with grief as well as frustration and disappointment—but of course that can't be; without her heart, Cora can't feel grief. Cora raises her arm, ready to fling the now-useless dagger away, then thinks better of it and uses her power to drag Baelfire to her side. Stunned from the news he just received from it, Bae drops his phone. His eyes blank, he doesn't attempt to fight back as Cora seizes a handful of his hoodie to hold him steady. "Your father proves himself a coward to the end!" Cora informs Bae. "Leaving you to pay his debts."

She raises the dagger, positioning it directly above Bae's throat. "Your worthless life is pennies on the dollar for what he owes, but wherever he is, if he sees this at least I'll have some satisfaction."

"Let him go, Cora!" Emma demands, raising her hands so that Cora can see the sparks of magic flying from her fingertips.

Henry twists under Regina's magic grip, turning his frightened face up to hers. "Mom! You have to stop Cora. He's my dad! Please!"

Snow has picked up the box that Henry dropped. No one notices as she reaches inside the box, her mouth open in amazement. She jerks her hand back, then narrows her eyes and thrusts her hand back inside to remove the box's contents.

Regina hesitates, her glance passing between Henry and Cora. As her plan unravels before her, she scrambles to unite its scattered threads, though she realizes many of them are beyond repair now. But the thing she wants most—really, the only thing she wanted from this plan—is just a yard away, and with a simple snap of her fingers she can have it: she can send Henry back to the mansion, lock him in his bedroom to wait, safe and sound, for her return. Henry can be hers with a single movement from her, and that's what matters. The final satisfaction, in the form of the destruction of Snow and Emma, can wait for another day, a day when Henry isn't present to witness it, a day when one of the other fine citizens of Storybrooke can be made the instrument of destruction, leaving Regina's hands spotlessly clean. The cricket, perhaps—that would certainly give this sleepy little town something to talk about, wouldn't it? The town conscience suddenly snaps and slaughters the Charming family, and such a shame, because the town's only defense attorney is dead. And those padded cells in the basement of the hospital stand ready—the psychiatrist stashed away in the asylum, perfect irony.

Yes, the cricket, a perfect candidate, or what if Charming himself suddenly rose up from his bed in the middle of the night, found his police revolver in the nightstand and. . . . A lovers' quarrel ends tragically in a suicide-double homicide. Tragic. . . _"If something tragic were to happen_"—Regina shakes her head to clear it of the imp's voice. Why is _he_ haunting her thoughts?

"Mom, please!" Henry's plea cuts through her reverie.

Regina looks at his imploring face and another magic, more ancient and powerful than the magic she relies upon, rises in her. It's a mother's magic, and it shows her their past together all in one flash: memories of this child, her child, who loved her from the moment Gold set him into her arms for the first time, whose loyalty has strayed but, she believes—she _must_ believe, or she has no one else to love, for deep down she knows the truth about Cora—Henry's love has never wavered. Henry wants something; his mommy can provide it. It's a simple equation and a request so easily fulfilled. Regina thrusts her head around. "Mother! Let the imp's son go. He's useless to us now." When Cora ignores her and presses the dagger against Bae's throat, Regina flicks her hand toward the scene: her gesture appears to be one of annoyance, but it's accompanied by a little magic, and the dagger goes flying. Neither Cora nor Regina bothers to take note of where it lands: it too is useless now, just a fancy piece of old metal.

Unobserved, David dashes off a quick text message.

Cora's lipsticked lips (that's Vampire Kisses, Regina's favorite brand, she's wearing—no doubt Cora swiped the tube from Regina's dressing table) part slightly, then form a smile. "If you think that will stop me. . . ." In a puff of magic a brand-new dagger appears in her manicured hands (Regina recognizes Blood Roses nail polish. What else has Cora taken?).

"Oh, really, mother," Regina sighs and jerks her hand backward: Bae goes flying through the air and lands at Henry's tethered feet.

"You foolish girl!" Cora storms—and so does Sidney's apartment. A storm cloud appears over the living room and a bolt of lightning streaks from it, striking the mirror and shattering it.

Regina snaps her fingers and the carpet releases Henry. "Take my son out of here while I have a conversation with my mother," she orders Rumplestiltskin's son. As Bae grabs Henry's hand and runs for the front door, Regina calls after them, "This is temporary, Baelfire. I'll be back for my son when I've finished my business here."

"Regina, don't let your soft-heartedness turn you into a wastrel. This is your opportunity at last to get rid of the whole kit and caboodle of them," Cora urges. "Every last one of these do-gooders would interfere with your rights to Henry. If you don't eliminate them now, you'll never get him back."

"It's too late now," Regina points out. "Henry would know what we've done and he'd never forgive me. We have to let them go."

"That's not what I came here for!" The thundercloud overhead rumbles and threatens rain. "I can't have the Dark One's powers, but at least with him out of the way, I can take what's left." Cora turns her attention to Emma. "Raw, untapped power. It will be just like a draught from the Fountain of Youth." She shapes her hand into a claw and Emma begins to sputter, grasping at her throat, struggling against the magic strangling her.

"Emma! Use your magic!" David urges. "Fight back!"

Emma throws fireballs with one hand as she claws uselessly at her throat; her fireballs burn holes in the carpet and the couch but come nowhere near her enemies.

An authoritative voice, until now silent, cuts through the air. "Release my daughter." All eyes turn to Snow, who holds a glowing black mass in her hands and whose words are being directed at that mass.

With a gasp Cora breaks off her attack on Emma, and Emma drops to the ground, gasping too to regain her breath.

"Mother. . . " Regina whispers.

"Where did you get that?" Cora snaps. "How did you know about that?"

"I didn't." Snow seems just as amazed as everyone else. "Henry brought it."

Cora swings on Regina, her face as dark as her heart. "You told your son how to control me?"

"No, of course not," Regina starts.

But David interrupts her. He comes to Snow's side, transfixed by the rocklike object in her hands. "You can destroy her." His voice is hushed. "All you have to do is crush it."

"No!" Regina shouts. "You won't harm my mother!"

"Crush it," David urges again. "It's the only way to stop her for good. _For good_, Snow," he repeats. "For the good of all of us."

Regina takes a step forward, her hand raised, magic sparking from her fingertips. "You will not hurt my mother."

"Let her live and she'll kill all of us, even Henry," David says. "And she won't stop here. If she finds a way to get out of Storybrooke, it'll be a bloodbath like nothing this world has ever seen."

"You can't!" Emma interrupts.

"Crush it, Mary Margaret!" David insists.

Her mouth falling open, Snow stares at her husband.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

**A/N. My son, who thinks Regina is the queen of all Evil Queens, cast the final vote, so Evil Regals, this chapter's for you. To everyone who's posted a note: thank you! A few replies: **

**B, there is a Mr. Dove on the show: he's the guy repoing Moe's truck in "Skin Deep." And something special is coming for Belle. **

**Cat4444, when the action here finally quiets down, the theory of relativity in regards to Henry's magic will be presented. **

**Grace5231973, Sudoku, Anarra, and Linzerj: I have a word of hope for you: Ferragamos. Coming in chapter 16.**

* * *

**Storybrooke 2:59 pm**

"Your husband for my mother," Regina offers a bargain, and a cobra appears, wrapped around David's legs. "What'll it be, Snow?"

"Mary Margaret," Emma clambers to her feet. "No. . . ."

"You have to," David says. "There's no choice. You have to stop her, permanently. This is the only way."

"You'll be destroying yourself," Emma argues.

Snow's hand tightens on the heart and Cora clutches her chest, moaning.

"Stop it," Regina hisses.

"If you can't do it, give the heart to me," David urges.

Cora crumples to the carpet, blood founts from her nose and mouth.

"Let her go!" Regina demands, and then she tries another tactic. "You're not a killer. You're Snow White. You believe in second chances, just like Henry does. You're honor-bound to give her a chance to reform, just as you did me."

"For all the good it did," Snow mumbles, and she puts a little more pressure on the heart in her hand, until Cora cries out.

"She's right," Emma interjects, and everyone glances at her in surprise, but she stands firm. "Regina is right. You can't kill—not even Cora. Mom, this town needs for you to be our queen, our Snow White. _I _need for you to be Snow White."

"She'll hurt Henry if she gets the chance." But Snow wavers and her grip on the heart loosens. "She'd kill every one of us without a second thought."

"It's not about her," Emma presses. "It's about you. Gold told me something when we were on the ship—he told me about this heart thing. He said it was the most evil kind of magic, and he said only three people in the world could handle this magic without losing their soul to it: himself and Regina—because their souls are already corrupted, I guess—and"—she pauses as realization hits her: Henry must have overheard this conversation, and that's how he knew what to look for, and where, in Gold's shop. She shakes the thought away; she can't let the enemy have this piece of information about Henry. "And Gold specifically said 'don't let Snow use this magic.'" Emma takes a step toward her mother, holding out her hand. "It's like a last request, right? You need to honor it, even if you hated the man. Give it to me, Mary Margaret. Please."

The mother-daughter face-off is interrupted by the sudden appearance of a swirl of yellow (no, Emma has to admit, it's not yellow; it's gold). When the haze clears Henry is standing there.

Both mothers exclaim at once, "Henry!"

"Stop this," Henry pleads again.

Bae comes running in, panting, "He got away from me—he just—" He stops short, staring. "Henry?!" And then as he comes to understand what his son has done, he utters, "Aw, crap, he's got it too, the magic disease."

"He's going to be okay," Emma tosses over her shoulder. "Not like them."

"If you fight for him, he will be," Snow adds, shooting a challenging look at Bae. "He'll need his father as well as his mother." She picks up the box and gently sets the heart inside, then closes the lid. "As well as his grandmother." Without hesitation she walks directly up to Regina and offers the box. "And his grandfather. Henry's right. Release David and end this war before someone dies."

"Before someone _else_ dies," Bae corrects.

"A trade?" Regina eyes the box but doesn't reach for it.

Snow shakes her head. "A peace offering."

Regina snaps her fingers and the cobra disappears. David picks up his sword, ready for a fight—but he won't be the one to start it.

"Thank you, Mom," Henry says.

For the moment, Cora has been forgotten, and she takes full advantage. "Perfect, just perfect." She makes claws of both of her hands and bolts of magic strike Emma and Henry down, wrap them in chains, and then she snaps her fingers and the mother and son vanish.

"What are you doing?" David shouts.

"Where are they?" Bae demands.

Regina wheels, her eyes and her fingertips flashing fire. "Mother! Bring them back, now!"

"Don't tell me you couldn't taste the power in their magic," Cora points a finger at Regina. "You know it as well as I do: they're powerful. Not to the same degree as the Dark One, but that opportunity is lost forever. I won't let this one slip by me."

Regina forms a fireball and balances it for a throw. "Bring them back. If you care anything for me, bring them back."

"I can take his magic without hurting him," Cora assures her. "He's a child. He's barely aware of his power. He certainly won't miss it. And Emma—she's what stands between you and him. Let me get rid of her for you, darling. It will be my pleasure to reunite you with your son."

"That's not how," Regina snaps. "Love can't be forced. Didn't you learn that from Daddy? From me?" A catch in her voice reveals a lifetime of longing. Her emotions will undo her: the ball of fire in her hand sputters and goes out. She doesn't have it in her to fight her mother, despite the cost to Henry. She drops her voice. "Bring them back, _please_."

"There's so much I can do for you, if you'll only let me, Regina." Cora too makes her voice soft.

Regina can't fight her mother—but she can change her. Tucked under her arm is the box that Snow has surrendered. Regina opens the box and removes the heart and walks forward.

And Cora strikes, sending her daughter smashing against the flat-screen TV. The screen and Regina's head crack, Regina slumps to the floor in a daze, and Cora advances, preparing another lightning bolt.

"Snow!" David suddenly remembers that broken vial from Gold's shop—and its contents, which have formed a hideous stain all over Snow's pretty white cotton blouse. "The squid ink!"

Snow gasps, understanding. She runs at Cora and when she's just a few feet away she pulls the blouse away from her body, raises it to her face and blows. The ink stain lifts from the cotton in a cloud and floats through the air, and as Cora is preoccupied with Regina, that cloud settles on her skin, her hair, into her lungs. . .

And Cora is locked in a blue light, immobilized, her lightning bolt flickering in her hand.

Regina stares. Then she collects her thoughts and proceeds to do what she intended to do: her head high, the heart cradled carefully in both hands, she walks up to her mother and with a quick thrust returns the heart where it belongs, where it should have been all along. Regina steps back, watching her mother closely, but her thoughts are back in her father's mansion. Her imagination paints pictures based upon the stories she used to tell herself in her nursery days: a mommy who tucked her in at night and read storybooks to her, a mommy who kissed her scraped knees, a mommy who taught her to cook and dance and figure sums. Someday her mother would become that mommy, little 'Gina's imagination assured her. Someday when she wasn't so busy negotiating alliances and waging wars. Someday when she would have time to care.

Regina can't remember when she first learned that Cora had yanked out her own heart, but she can remember when she finally accepted the fact that her someday would never come—_could_ never come, because Cora couldn't feel. Regina can remember that moment of acceptance vividly because immediately after it, she pushed her mother through Rumplestiltskin's mirror.

"I'm sorry, Mother," Regina whispers. "I love you." Though the blue magic that's immobilizing Cora bites with cold, Regina kisses her mother's cheek.

The spell cracks. Cora gasps, struggling for breath, but she's smiling, and there's something odd about her smile, Regina thinks, something foreign, and then she realizes what's different: this smile is pure. Not an ounce of malice or smugness in it. This smile is love.

Cora's head jerks back and she claws at her silk blouse, as though it's alive and attacking her. Her legs give out, and as she drops, Regina catches her in a sling of magic. Regina lowers her gently, and David dashes in with a couch cushion, sliding it under Cora's head and Snow calls for an ambulance. Cora shakes her head, her eyes fixed on Regina, conveying the message that her voice can't, a message just for Regina. Someday has come at last.

What they're saying with their eyes and their touch will remain private between them, as it should. A mother and her daughter should have a few secrets together, shouldn't they?

Cora lifts her face. Regina meets her halfway, accepting, for the first time, her mother's kiss. With a shudder Cora performs an act of magic, bringing back Emma and Henry, frazzled but unharmed.

Once she realizes what's happening, Emma hugs Henry, turning him away. Her heart breaks for him: he's one grandparent and seems likely to lose another in just a few minutes. Though perhaps, she thinks, the community is safer without them, no eleven-year-old should be robbed in this way.

Snow leans in, whispering to Emma, "The ambulance is out on a call."

Emma raises an eyebrow. "_The_ ambulance? There's only one?"

"Until you broke the curse, we never needed one."

Emma sends Henry into Snow's arms.

Emma kneels beside Cora. "Regina, let me transport her to the hospital."

Regina raises a tear-stained face. She's forgotten for the moment she's talking to an enemy—to the woman who has taken her son away. "I shouldn't have done it. I think she's having a heart attack."

Cora shakes her head viciously. "Not sorry." She uses the strength she has left to squeeze Regina's hand. "I love you."

Regina bows her head into her mother's breast. The evil queen's shoulders shake, but her sobs are silent. She was taught from the cradle that tears are weakness and that no one can be trusted to see her vulnerable. She accepts Emma's offer. "Take her. I'll be right behind."

"I'll be back soon, Henry." Emma waves her hand and she disappears with Cora.

Regina rises and turns to her son. He withdraws from Snow's embrace and wraps his arms around the woman who raised him. He doesn't say anything; his actions speak eloquently enough.

"I'm sorry, Henry." Regina's voice is hoarse. She's about to explain; she wants him to understand how much she needs her mother's love as well as his. But there's a thin line between justifying and excusing, and she won't cross it; he deserves not to be manipulated. "I was wrong. I hope you'll forgive me and someday we can start over."

The boy starts to cry. It's all too much for him, and an unfamiliar feeling overtakes Regina: guilt. She ducks her face into his hair and cries.

David is moved by the scene, despite his revulsion for Regina. He comes to Snow and slips an arm around her shoulders.

"I want to go with you to the hospital," Henry says. He glances at Snow, who nods, granting permission.

"Thank you," Regina replies to both of them. She starts to summon her magic, but it's pale and shaky.

"Let me." Henry claps his hands together and he and Regina disappear.

David stoops to pick up the dagger.

Bae wanders out onto the stairwell to take some fresh air into his lungs. He watches a cumulus cloud moving slowly to the west. He's trying to focus on it so that he can tamp down the pressure that's building in his chest from the long years of anger and wall-building and loneliness, the tiny flicker of hope, squelched by shock and grief. . . and guilt. He realizes he's been a coward, running away from a man who loved him so much as to devote three hundred years to finding him. That realization leads to another: how brave his father must have been to have traversed time and space on a hope as thin as a cloud that he _might_ someday find Bae in a world of 5 billion people, and that Bae _might_ someday listen to him and _might_, just the slightest might, forgive him.

"Papa, I'm the one who needs forgiving," he tells the cloud. He will pay the price for his pride.

But there is one thing he can do now: he can break the chain of cowardice that began with the grandfather that he never met. He can become a fixture—a fixer—in his son's life. Tamara may not want to give up her business to move here, but that's all right. New York is practically just around the corner from Storybrooke.

Snow and David emerge from the demolished apartment. With a tired sigh, David sheathes his sword and closes the door behind them. He clears his throat. "Maybe we should"—he hesitates, choosing the words carefully—"go to your father."

Bae nods. After a moment of uncertainty—a quick glance with Snow confirms that this is the decent, albeit painful, thing to do—David hands him the dagger. "I'll bury it with him," Bae mutters.

They walk slowly down the stairs and into the street. They make their way back to Main Street, where David parked his truck. Before they climb in, Snow reaches for her phone. "I guess we should call Mr. Grimm." She steps aside to make the call out of Bae's earshot.

Bae raises an eyebrow at David, who fumbles with his car keys before explaining, "Mortician."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

**A/N. And this chapter's for all the Whalers.**

* * *

**Jolly Roger 2:57 pm**

"Ring, damn you." Hands on his hips, Whale glares down at the five cell phones lined up neatly on the blanket upon which the deceased lies. "_Any_ of you."

Slightly has brought a bucket of water and some cloths—not very clean, but who would expect laundry service aboard a pirate ship. Kneeling beside the body, Dove has wetted the cloths and has been washing the blood and chemicals from Mr. Gold's chest. His movements are so gentle, Whale thinks, you would think he was washing the body of his own son, not his employer, not the centuries-old Dark One.

Whale's scowl travels to his watch. "Two minutes."

Slightly glances up at Whale. He's glad for the excuse to turn his attention away from what Dove is doing; he feels like he's intruding on a moment that should be private, between friends. "Two minutes gone or two minutes left?"

"Gone."

Slightly kicks at a mound of sand. "If I ever get my hands on that f-ing Hook. . . .Soon as the boys get back, we're going after him."

"Where is he?" Whale asks, but truthfully he doesn't care. It's just something to think about. He balls his fists to control the impulse to lay his hands upon that immobile chest and begin pushing into it. The CPR theme song fills his ears: _"Ah ah ah ah stayin' alive, stayin' alive_."

Dove says quietly, "Master Bae wanted you to know he's kicking ass in your name."

"What?" Whale blinks, but then he realizes Dove is talking to the deceased.

Whale stares into Gold's face. The amount of time in this world and the previous one that he'd spent in this man's company could hardly constitute a relationship, but they had conspired together, so that counts for something, Whale supposes. It occurs to him he doesn't even know Gold's first name. He'll have to leave that space blank on the death certificate.

"Four minutes. Gone."

One of the EMTs mutters, "One left before brain damage."

Whale nods. "But he could surprise us. Tough old bastard." He studies the deceased, not with fondness, but with respect. Funny how bodies seem to shrink so quickly upon death. The living Gold always seemed so much taller.

"Ring, damn—"

One of the phone rings. Slightly dives for it, but Whale doesn't wait to hear the news. "Move him!" Dove and the EMTs lift the body, carrying it by the blanket; three steps and they're across the border, another step and they're inside the ambulance, and as Slightly speaks into the phone, Whale drops to his knees and begins to push rhythmically on the freshly washed chest. _You can tell by the way I use my walk/I'm a woman's man, no time to talk_. The CPR theme song—a song of life—Frankenstein's song. "Defibrillator!"

"Six minutes," Dove announces.

"Atropine, damn it!"

**Highway 3:06 pm**

David jerks the steering wheel of his Ford so sharply that Snow, crammed in the middle of the seat, slides into Bae, knocking him against the door handle. A siren blares, bringing pain to the passengers' ears, and a white vehicle comes roaring down the narrow dirt road, showering the Ford's windshield with dust. "They got him!" David shouts, and he jerks the wheel again, spinning a U turn in the dirt. "Hang on!" He slams his foot against the accelerator.

"Thank the gods!" Snow suddenly bursts into tears and as best she can in the tight space, she slides an arm around Bae's shoulders.

David's barely completed his U turn when a second vehicle looms in his rear view mirror, a blue Yukon. Bae twists in his seat and reports, "It's Dove and Slightly." He starts to dial his phone, but it's already ringing. "Yeah?. . . Tell Mr. Dove there, the steaks are on me tonight, boys."

Snow can hear the caller caution, "Petey—Doc said he wasn't sure. Best not count your chickens before they hatch."

Bae replies, "At least we've _got_ eggs now."

**Storybrooke General Hospital 3:15 pm**

Belle's grip on his arm tightens as the automatic doors slide open and Archie leads her into the hospital. Her body stiffens; he understands why. Back on the scene of the battle, he'd given her a precursory exam to determine the extent of damage Regina and Cora had done to her physically; tomorrow, when a semblance of normalcy returns to Storybrooke, he'll focus on her emotional state. In the exam he found recent needle marks on both of her arms and a dull glaze in her eyes. He has a pretty good idea that the sorceresses aren't Belle's only torturers.

His face is red with anger over what's been done to her. His ears are red with shame over his own ignorance of it. But not any more. Tomorrow he'll begin gathering evidence, and as soon as he's learned which of the hospital's staff is to blame—which one or ones have Regina's stiletto heel marks tracked across their backs—he's going to Emma and then to the press.

"I'm sorry, Belle. If I don't have those tests run, I won't know what drugs are in your system and how to treat you." He looks her directly in the eye. "I promise, as soon as the tests have been run, I'm taking you out of here."

"I won't have to come back?"

"I promise. The minute those tests are done, I'm taking you home."

"Doctor Hopper, I don't know where my home is."

His mouth opens and closes. "Ah. Yes. You shouldn't be alone. Granny—"

But before he can finish his sentence, a shrieking ambulance rolls up to the front of the hospital and three men in white coats leap out. Archie draws her aside to make way for the running men and the gurney they're pushing.

Belle and Archie catch a glimpse of the patient. The fact that Whale and the EMTs are running brings Archie relief. "He's alive."

"I. . . I know him," Belle stutters.

"Do you remember him?" Archie squeezes her arm hopefully.

"Yeah—no, not from before, I mean. He came to see me here; he seems to know me, but I don't remember him."

"I'm going to do my best to rectify that."

Regina is sitting primly on a nasty Naugahyde couch in the waiting room at Storybrooke General. Before she sat down, she conjured a sanitized sheet to cover the couch: no telling how many sick people have left their germs all over this ripped-up furniture. Next to her is Henry, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, making his body small as if to protect himself. Poor kid: mother a jailbird, father a junkyard mongrel, one grandpa in the grave and the other a moron married to a blubbering idiot. At least Grandmama Cora will be all right: Regina has brought in three nurses and a cardiologist to tend her, and just for assurance, she's chained their families to the walls of Henry's treehouse and will release them only when Cora is on her feet again.

She rubs Henry's back in little circles. "It's going to be okay, sweetie; I promise."

Freaky Emma is disco dancing with a vending machine, bumping up against the Plexiglas with her hip. She's also yakking into her phone to that drunk Leroy. A bag of Cheetos drops down into the bin and she retrieves it, tosses it at Henry with a "You hungry, kid?"

Curling her lip in disgust, Regina catches the snack and tosses it into a trashcan. "My son does not eat junk food, Ms. Swan. Nor does he eat between meals."

Emma glares back but she continues to yak to Leroy.

* * *

Regina conjures an appletini and sips it as she reflects on the day's events. Nothing has gone the way she and Cora planned, yet it could yet turn to their favor. The cardiologist's preliminary diagnosis is a mild heart attack: Cora is expected to recover fully. Perhaps that bitch Fate has decide to play Regina's game after all: when this is all over, Henry will see that out of all his crazy relatives, she's the only voice of reason, the only source of confidence and power. And with those ditzes the Charmings in such a state of chaos, Henry will beg to come home to his safe, quiet bedroom in the spacious, comfortable mansion. She'll have Henry and Cora back soon, and Gold is at last out her hair. Ding dong, the bastard's dead.

Yet. . . .Gold is dead. She tosses back the rest of the appletini. _Why_ is that a buzz kill?

A sudden ruckus interrupts this little cold war. Regina glances up as Whale and a couple of other medics rush past the waiting room toward the emergency room. She's enraged by all the racket as Whale's lackeys wheel a gurney down the hall; the noise surely is interrupting Cora's rest. Regina rises gracefully and approaches the first intern she finds, threatening to have her job and her head if she doesn't do something about that noise.

"Another emergency patient," the intern tries to explain, but Regina will have none of it. She releases a flood of demands—until she catches a glimpse of the man on the gurney.

Gold. Alive. Then she realizes the slimy imp has tricked her once again. So why does she catch herself smiling?

That cacophonous dark voice in her soul awakens, blaring one word: Dagger. As the idiot Charmings and that whelp Nealfire come running in pursuit of the Sperm Whale, Regina's smile expands into a full-blown smirk. That shining, curvaceous kris dagger beckons and she shall have it. You may be alive, Dark One, but the Evil Regal shall have it and Henry and your little dog Nealfire too. She dismisses the intern and instructs Henry to stay with Emma, then she transports herself back to Sidney's.

* * *

Emma is on the phone, summoning Leroy for guard duty; though it appears Cora's in no condition to do anything nasty for the rest of the day, she won't take any chances. She stuffs a dollar into the soda machine, but when Regina begins to squawk to some poor intern about the noise, she loses interest in Dr. Pepper. When Regina vanishes in a cloud of magic, Emma groans. If she knew a spell for tracking, she'd use it, but short of that, she'll just have to do it the old-fashioned way as soon as Leroy arrives and can watch Henry. She wonders how in the hell she got into this mess, then the badge attached to her waistband pokes her: oh yeah, she's the sheriff, that's how. And how did she get to be the sheriff? Oh yeah, Gold.

David and Snow come running in with Neal; the latter gallops on past in pursuit of the gurney, but Emma's parents stop in the waiting room. After quick hugs and assurances, Snow breaks the big news. "He's alive! The EMTs brought him in just ahead of us."

Henry's voice rises a full octave. "Grandpa's going to be okay?"

"Seems Whale's some kind of hero," David says. "Finally got his wish and brought someone back from the dead, except with CPR, not weird science."

Before she can latch hold of her cool—for Gold may be the Dark One but she's the Tough One—she whoops like a cowboy in a Saturday night saloon. She clears her throat in embarrassment. "That's good news. Keep me posted. Listen, can Henry stay with you? Regina took off. I'm going out after her."

"Sure, sweetheart," Snow answers. "Good luck."

David fumbles in his jeans pocket for coins. "You want some chips, Henry?"

As she hurries out to the parking lot, Emma feels a smile stealing across her face as she contemplates the latest news. Not that _she_ cares—Gold's been nothing but a pain in the ass—but it matters to Henry.

Yeah, a pain in the ass. But Storybrooke's pain in the ass.

**Sidney Glass' Apartment 3:16 pm**

Regina straightens her suit jacket as she arrives in the center of Sidney's apartment. Pictures askew on the walls, furniture overturned, fireball burns in the carpet, a cracked window and a shattered mirror clutter the place. Sidney the neat freak would have been heart-broken. Gold the landlord will blow a gasket. Regina can't wait to see that, and in fact she's going to ratchet up the fun a wee bit: with a couple of cans of spray paint she decorates the walls with graffiti ("Gold is a capitalist pig," "Snow is frigid," "David for Dunce of the Year," "Ruby's a chunk of paste glass," "Pongo=tomorrow's lunch special at Granny's"). On the front door she sprays "Crack house. Crack whores welcome."

She folds her arms as she surveys her artistry. Then she notices all those framed photos of herself, too good for a place like this, and she transports them to her mansion. Now she's satisfied. Won't Gold just crap a brick when he sees the mess his former tenant left behind.

She wiggles her fingers, magic dancing along the tips of her Blood Roses nails. "Come to mama." But the dagger doesn't come.

With a huff she deduces that one of the idiots must have taken the dagger. Maybe that moron David will use it to cut open cans of sardines while he watches WWE Wrestling on his portable TV. Or maybe the ditz Snow will take the dagger home to pray over it. One of them has it, and conveniently, they're all back at the hospital.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

**A/N. And this chapter is for the Dearies.**

* * *

**Emergency Room 3:20 pm**

His body convulses. Air is forced into his lungs. Some force he can't identify—it's not human, not magic—is pulling him back roughly, without respect for his condition, without regard for the shock to his nervous system. Fire races through his bloodstream, bursts into his heart, busting down its walls and laying it open flat. The fire leaves behind in its wake an icy chill. His brain floods with light, blinding his inner eye. He is jerked back from the silent, empty room.

His eyes fly open. A narrow beam of light pierces his vision; just behind the light is a shadow. His nostrils take in the stench of stale Playboy Cologne and he gags, throwing his arm up to shield his eyes. "Get that f—ing light of out my eyes! Back off, Frankenstein!"

Except it comes out more like "glub grrrb fumm bubbb rntn" because something's been crammed down his throat.

A pair of nurses, one on each side, grab his arms and in their angel voices urge him to relax, everything's fine, he's in the hospital and Christmas is coming and the goose is getting fat. Or something like that. One of the nurses is a petite brunette with blue eyes and a fearless smile, and he reaches for her. "Bbbb?" When he blinks he sees her eyes aren't blue after all and his head drops back onto a pillow as he groans in disappointment.

"Mr. Gold? Can you hear me, Mr. Gold?"

"Well of course I can hear you, you dumb ass. I may be 346 years old but I don't need a hearing aid yet." Except it comes out in _glurb_s and _blub_s and _mff_s again.

Whale says something over his shoulder, then orders—orders! Who does he think he is, ordering the Dark One around?—his patient to close his eyes and relax. Gold closes his eyes, but not because Whale told him to; he can't see worth a damn anyway. He feels tape being removed from his mouth—they've gagged and taped him? What is this, a kidnapping?—and the blockage being withdrawn from his throat.

He sputters. "What the fu—"

"Language, Mr. Gold! There are ladies present."

He blinks hard several times to clear his vision; when he can see again, he doesn't like what he's seeing: Whale smirking at him. "I win!" the monster-maker crows.

"What did you do to me, you gravy-slurpin' son of a toad stool?" Gold tries to sit up. "My chest feels like you dropped an anvil on it—repeatedly."

Whale laughs. "Science, Mr. Gold. That weak, feeble stuff you peddle just took a trouncing from King Science. Now—pay up."

"Never." Gold turns up his nose.

"You owe me."

"Tell me, doctor, what miracle brought about my recovery?"

"CPR and defibrillation."

"And?"

"Atropine and assorted other drugs."

"Atropine. . . given to man by Atropose of the Moirai. Atropose, it's said, is the Fate who decides when we die. But doctor, what got rid of the poison?"

Whale begrudgingly mutters, "That stuff you had in the vial."

"Magic stuff." It's Gold's turn to smirk.

"Yeah, well, if it wasn't for the Hippocratic Oath, I never would've brought you back to life, so it's science you owe your debt to, you old buzzard, and if you don't admit it, Nurse Kellie here is going to give you an enema."

The brunette winks and Gold shrugs. "If that's what you call punishment around here, I can see why you became a doctor."

The brunette wiggles a finger and an orderly brings a bundle of black cloth to her. She holds the cloth up for Gold to see: these long strips of fabric were once a pair of Armani trousers that it took Mr. Browning three weeks to get to fit Gold just right. The nurse cocks her head in mock pity. "So sorry, Mr. Gold, but it was an emergency."

Gold gulps. "And my silk shirt?"

She shakes her head mournfully. "We put it out of its misery."

"The jacket? The tie? The _shoes_? My Ferragamos, imported from Florence? Oh gods, not the Ferragamos!"

Whale shrugs. "In all the rush to save your life, Mr. Gold, it seems those articles just disappeared."

"Of course, we _could_ trace our steps; perhaps we'd find them," Kellie says sweetly. "If we had a little motivation."

Gold grits his teeth. "Snail-slime lickin', machine-worshippin' witch doctors." He sucks in a breath. "Fine. Bring me the shoes and then I'll say it."

Whale consults Kellie in a sidebar. When the little conference breaks up, the orderly brings the Armani jacket to Kellie, who drapes it lovingly over Gold's knobby knees. His bare knobby knees and his messed-up ankle, he realizes, exposed by the twisted hospital gown. . . which has ridden up to his waist. He squirms and with his single free hand (the other being hooked up to some sort of beeping machinery) he spreads the jacket across his lap, protecting his precious assets.

"Would you like a little help with that, Mr. Gold?" Whale chortles.

"Don't worry," Kellie adds. "You don't have anything we haven't already seen before. By the way, I know now why you have to have your trousers tailor-made."

"Somebody get me out of this torture chamber."

Whale chuckles. "Oh, your ass is ours for the next three days, at least. And we've sent off to the Boston Zoo for the hypodermic they use on elephants, because Kellie's going to be giving you lots and lots of injections."

"All right, all right!" Gold squeezes his eyes shut in anticipated agony. "Science is more powerful than magic. Now give me my shoes."

Whale cups his hand to his ear and leans in. "What's that? I didn't quite catch it."

Gold bites off each syllable for the moron. "Sci-ence-is-more-pow-er-ful-than-ma-gic. Did you catch it that time, you bolt-necked flathead?"

"That didn't sound sincere to me. What do you think, Kellie?"

"No, not at all sincere. I think it's going to be a long time until we get around to looking for those shoes."

Whale and Kellie turn to walk away, but Gold grabs Whale's white coat sleeve. The sorcerer forces a smile and softens his tone. "Magic, despite all its ancient lore and mystery, is but a candle flickering in the darkness of ignorance, compared to the blazing sun of science."

Whale scribbles furiously on his clipboard. "Well said, Mr. Gold, well said! I must get that down word for word. 'Ancient lore and mystery'. . . 'flickering candle'. . . 'darkness of ignorance'. . . ."

Gold sighs and sinks back into his pillow.

Giggling, Kellie and Whale walk from the room.

"My shoes!" Gold shouts after them, and Whale pauses on the threshold. The surgeon lifts a foot and wiggles it, catching the fluorescent light in the layer of polish of the black shoes. "They're a bit sand-scuffed, but they look nice just the same, don't you think? A bit snug, though. I'll have to get the cobbler to stretch them." He lowers his foot. "You know what they say about men with small feet, don't you, Mr. Gold? Scientifically proven to be true." The Ferragamos clatter on linoleum as Whale walks out.

**Storybrooke General Hospital Room 666 3:23 pm**

Regina's stilettos clack on linoleum as she makes a quick stop in Cora's private room on the farthest corner of highest floor of Storybrooke General's east wing. Leroy plants himself at the threshold as Regina tries to enter. "No visitors."

"Doctor's orders?" Regina asks.

"Sheriff's. She's under arrest. And I'm pretty sure you will be too, soon as my boys find some fairy dust to line the jail with."

Regina flicks her hand and Leroy goes splat against the open door. She steps over him and approaches Cora's bed. A nurse, who's been adjusting the IV drip, pauses to glare at Regina. "No visitors, Ms. Mills."

"No visitors except her daughter," Regina answers. "Unless you'd rather live the rest of your days as a cockroach?"

The nurse clamps her mouth shut and returns her attention to the IV.

Cora is asleep or unconscious, Regina's not sure which, but Regina leans in and brushes a stray lock of hair back from her mother's cheek. "Really, Mother, things are going to have to change when you get out of here." She kisses Cora's cheek. "And you will get out of here, I promise. Jail cell, my sweet fanny! What does that blonde bimbo think she is?" She studies Cora's wrinkled forehead, her crow's feet. "As soon as you get out, we'll both take a full day at the spa. A sea salt scrub, a mani-pedi, a little Botox and you'll feel like a new woman." Regina wonders, now that Cora has a heart inside her for the first time in a century, will she feel like a new woman? Or will all the suffering of her days as the miller's daughter come rushing back?

More importantly, will she greet Henry as a loving grandmother? Will she take her daughter into her comforting open arms?

"Sleep well, Mother."

Regina sneers at the nurse, who's spying on her. "That's _Madam Mayor_ to you." With a flick of her wrist, Regina vanishes.

**Room 304 3:25 pm**

"Aw for cryin' out—"

"Sorry, Mr. Gold, my foot slipped," the orderly apologizes for nearly dropping the patient as he and his partner transfer the old man from bed to gurney. "Guess I need some new shoes, huh?"

Gold growls, "Very funny."

The gurney rumbles and one of its wheels squeaks as the two orderlies steer it out into the hallway and into the elevator. "You are giving me a private room, are you not?"

"Yes, Mr. Gold."

"Fine. There will be a substantial donation to the building fund next week—assuming I survive my stay in this hellhole."

"Thank you, Mr. Gold."

He closes his eyes, allowing the swaying of the gurney to ease him into relaxation. The orderlies wheel him up to room 304, next door to Belle's room, though if he gets his way, she'll never return to it. As soon as Whale rears his pea-brained head again, Gold's going to start a ruckus about freeing Belle from this rat-trap, which he's sure can't be doing her any good and in fact, may be doing harm. He's had his eye on that one nurse for some time now, the one that keeps hovering over Belle like she's afraid Belle will bolt for the exit at the first opportunity. It's time to get Mr. Dove to make some inquiries about that nurse. . . .Meanwhile, a nice check deposited in Granny's bank account will ensure Belle a comfortable room at the inn, hot meals, and plenty of friendly attention while she struggles to find an identity for herself.

All his fault. Every predicament she's fallen into since leaving Avonlea has been his fault. He must accept that truth now; no more excuses. He must make things right for her and for Bae. He will begin to figure out how, as soon as the last of the poison has left his system and he has rested.

But the peace and quiet lasts only a few blessed moments, for as soon as he's wheeled into 304, he's pelted with greetings, handshakes, shoulder-slaps, balloons, potted plants (from Game of Thorns?! These people lack the intelligence that Pan gave a gnat). Someone, good gods, even tries to hug him. The orderlies rescue him (all right, there will be two pairs of Ferragamos delivered to their locker room tomorrow). Everyone is pushed back and, indignity upon indignity, his gown rides up again as the orderlies lift him from the gurney to the awaiting bed. He snatches the sheet up to his chin and releases a small whimper as the Armani jacket is taken away, draped over a chair.

"You can only stay a minute," the orderly announces. "He needs his rest. He's been through quite an ordeal, and he is getting on in years."

Gold snorts. That one's just done himself out of a new pair of shoes.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

**Storybrooke General Hospital 3:29 pm**

Crammed into Room 304 are Bae, the Charmings, Henry, Mr. Dove, Marco, Sneezy Clark, Ruby, Granny, one of the nuns whose name he can't remember (something spacey, like her personality), a cub reporter from the _Mirror_ (literally: in the Enchanted Forest, this guy was Baby Bear, crime victim of that porridge thief Goldilocks) and a bunch of people Gold barely recognizes. The hairs on the back of his neck rise as his magic reports the presence of another sorcerer, though she's come disguised as (appropriately) a mosquito. If he weren't so weak he'd conjure a fly swatter, but he has to settle for a growl. "Hello, Regina. Sorry to see me?"

The mosquito flies up his nose. He starts to smack himself in the snoot—a deviated septum would be worth it if he could get rid of her once and for all—but she flies back out again before his hand makes contact. She buzzes at him, "Excuse me, Rumple, got a quick errand, but I'll be back." And she flies away but remains in the room, flitting from David to Snow to Bae, making a nuisance of herself, he supposes.

"Welcome back—"

"Back on your feet in no—"

"So glad you're okay—"

"Hey, Mr. Gold, does this mean you won't be collecting rent this month?"

"Where's Belle?" Gold bellows over all the yakking.

"She's fine, Papa," Bae assures him. "Snow got a text just a few minutes ago. Whatshisname, the doctor—"

"Archie," Snow interrupts. "Archie's running a few tests on her here in the hospital. Just a precaution. He says she's fine, just a shaken up."

"We'll be taking her back to the inn with us as soon as Archie's done," Ruby says.

"Thank you. We can discuss the matter of payment tomorrow."

Granny starts to say something, but Ruby bumps her with an elbow. "No payment required. She's a friend."

Gold's eyes widen and shoot to Granny, who nods. "A friend."

Gold looks away quickly. His voice is so low they can hardly hear him. "Thank you."

"You should probably know." David shifts from foot to foot. "Cora, uh, she's in room 666."

"Alive then." No one can tell from his expression how Gold feels about that.

"Yeah, but she had a heart attack." David searches for words to explain the chaos that went on back at Sidney's. "Regina. . . Regina got a hold of her heart and shoved it back into her, and I guess her body couldn't take it. She collapsed."

"She's expected to recover," Bae says.

"Her heart," Gold echoes. "How did. . . Where's Emma?"

"She's out looking for Regina," Snow says. "To arrest her."

"If the dwarves can find some fairy dust," David adds.

"Never mind. She's here."

"What?"

Gold points to the speck of black sitting on Bae's shoulder. "There."

Bae tries to follow his father's line of sight, but comes up empty. "Sorry, Dad, I don't see anything."

"What was Emma thinking, taking a chance like that? I told her—"

Henry steps up to the bed. "She didn't. I did. I heard what you said. I took the heart, to make her stop."

Gold grasps Henry's wrist and a sparkle of yellow light bursts from the point at which they've connected. Gold releases Henry, studying him. "Your magic has manifested. And your voice hasn't even changed yet. Extraordinary."

Henry nods. "I can make myself go someplace by imagining it. Other things, too."

"We will talk about this later." Gold glares at him. "But Henry, don't you _ever_ pull a stunt like that again. If I say a thing's unsafe to do—"

"But it wasn't. Not for me."

Gold falls back onto his pillow and groans. "A long talk. . . ." And then he sits bolt upright, the stitches in his chest pulling the skin, and a thin trail of blood leaks from the bandage and pools in his belly button. His face has turned white.

"That's right," a rich voice with a dark laugh running just beneath the surface pipes up, and every head in the room turns. "I have it." Regina emerges from behind Bae. The sea of humanity parts for her, except for Henry, who remains planted at Gold's bedside. Bae turns his hoodie pockets inside out, but it's too late, for Regina is a much better pickpocket than he ever was.

She waves the kris dagger back and forth like a pendulum. "As our old friend would say, 'Tick tock, tick tock.' You're mine now." She brushes past Bae, deliberately bumping his shoulder, and she seats herself on Gold's bed. Her finger slides down the blade of the dagger, outlining the engraving that has reappeared there and causing Gold to shiver.

Silent as an assassin, Dove moves toward Regina, but her magic's on high alert and reacts even before she does, immobilizing him. She peers at him; it takes some seconds for her to recognize him. "Ah, Rumple's pet." With a dismissive gesture she turns him into a, well, dove.

"What shall I do with you first, Rumpie?" Regina aims the blade's point at his chest and runs it lightly from his collarbone to his belly. She's practically wriggling with pleasure. Finally, she's the one with the power around here, and best of all, she can force Rumplestiltskin to turn his own power against himself.

"Sorry to inform you, dearie, but there's not much I can do for you at the moment," Gold says between his teeth. "Doubt if I could conjure you anything more than a cup of coffee."

Regina purses her Vampire Kisses lips as if she's daydreaming. Her only regret is that Cora's not able to see her daughter's rise to true power. Delicious! Except. . . how come that voice in the back of her head won't go away? _Poor little wee one_.

An orderly pops his head in. "All right, folks, time to—" He doesn't get to finish his suggestion: Regina snaps her fingers and he becomes a potted cactus on the nightstand.

"Regina," Snow breaks in. "Think about what you're doing. You have a chance to make things right. Your mother is upstairs; she has her heart back; for the first time ever, you have a chance at a real relationship with her."

Regina ignores Snow. She holds out her free hand and the spiked "Rumpie" dog collar appears in it. "Ask me for permission to wear this."

"Regina, don't," Granny attempts.

"Oh, for hell's sake, go bake something." Regina glares, and Granny and Ruby suddenly vanish in a purple cloud. Regina repeats her command. "Ask me for permission to wear this."

The words are torn from Gold's lips. "Your Majesty, may I wear—"

"Regina!" David barks, reaching for the enchanted sword he's still wearing on his hip. "So help me, if you don't release that dagger—"

"Watch it, pony boy, or I'll sic my dog on you. He may be small, but he bites." She scratches Gold behind the ear.

David hesitates, his hand on the hilt, and then he stands down.

"—that collar, please?" Gold finishes, choking. He reaches trembling fingers toward her palm.

"Take it, my pet, and wear it with pride."

Something glitters in the corners of his eyes, and he's looking at his son, and they're both remembering Hordor. As Gold picks up the dog collar and fastens it around his neck, Bae whispers, "It's okay."

Bae is a man now; he understands; he will not allow his father's humiliation to lessen the respect he feels. For this day has changed their relationship, even against Bae's will; he has seen his father make the ultimate sacrifice for this community, choosing to die rather than to be made into an instrument of destruction, and it's Bae's fault that that sacrifice now means naught. Bae's carelessness has brought them to this downfall. "You're the bravest man I know," Bae says. "And I'm sorry."

"Now thank me nicely for my lovely gift to you," Regina demands.

Gold's body shudders as he tries to fight the compulsion, but he knows he's wasting the little strength he has left. He looks at Bae as he says it. "Thank you for this lovely gift."

Regina looks at him in surprise. "It sounds like you mean it. Very good, Rumpie." She pats Gold on the head. "We're going to have so much fun together, as soon as you're well enough to play. Now tell all these people to get lost or you'll rip their throats out, like a wolf to a pack of lambs."

"Flock," Gold corrects. He stares at his useless hands, clutching in his lap. "Get out before I rip your throats out."

"Mom!" Henry closes his hand over Regina's, the one that's holding the dagger. "What am I worth to you?"

"Let go of me, Henry."

"What am I worth to you?" he repeats. "My life, what's it worth? More than money?"

"What?" She tilts her head, perplexed.

"Would you give up all your money to save me?"

"Why are you asking me such a ridiculous—"

"Would you risk your life to save me?"

"Of course I would. You shouldn't have to ask, Henry. You know I love you."

"More than magic?" Sparks fly from the kid's stubby fingers. "Is my life worth more to you than_ his_ magic?" One of the sparks catches on her sleeve and a flame flares. "My life for his magic, Mom?" Their hands are engulfed in fire.

"Life?!" Regina echoes. "What are you talking about?"

"Henry!" Snow gasps, starting forward, but David pulls her back. "Regina, stop this! He's going to be burned!"

"Mom! Will you give up his magic for me?"

"Gold, can't you do something?" David implores.

Gold's hand rises and shakes, but he can't summon his magic. "The dagger," he says helplessly. He clenches a fist.

David draws his sword and lifts it above Regina's arm. "Let Henry go or I'll cut your arm off."

"I'm not holding him," Regina protests. She wrenches her wrist, trying to pull away, but Henry's magic holds her firm.

"My life or his magic," Henry insists. "Because if you make him kill people, me and Emma will have to fight him—"

"You can't," Regina interrupts. "It's not your fight. You're just a boy."

"Me and Emma will have to fight him, 'cause we're the only ones who can."

"No! He's the Dark One. His power—Emma and Henry won't have a chance against him," David intercedes. "Regina, you have to stop this."

"He'll kill me, Mom."

"Kill you? What are you saying? I wouldn't let him hurt you, sweetie; don't you know that?" Regina urges.

"If they come at me, I'll slaughter them. The magic will leave me no choice. And they won't have a choice but to defend anyone I'm compelled to attack. It's their inheritance as children of heroes," Gold says quietly.

"What do you want, Regina?" Snow tries. "What'll you take for the dagger? Me? Will you take me in trade for the dagger?"

The fireball burns brighter. "Me and Emma are the only ones with magic. If I have to fight, I can fight."

Bae and Gold exchange a horrified look, remembering. Bae quotes his father from long ago: "'That's not battle; that's sacrifice, son.'"

Henry's voice drops. "I don't want to die, Mom."

"Henry. . . ." Regina's voice shakes and the fireball sputters and burns out.

"Think it through carefully, Regina," David advises. "You can rule the world, but what good will it do when the people you love are dead?"

Regina opens her hand and the dagger falls. Henry catches it. He hugs Regina, holding the dagger as far away from their bodies as his arm can reach. "Thank you, Mom."

"Come with me, please," she urges, kissing his cheek.

"No. But I'll come to see you tonight."

"I'll be waiting," she promises, and with a last kiss, she vanishes. The dove and the cactus become men again—Dove moving beside Gold to check on him, the intern hastily backing out of the room.

Henry sits down on the bed, balancing the dagger in both hands. His face mixes fascination with revulsion.

David steps forward. "Give it to me." He holds out his hand. "To make us all safe."

"Break it," the nun suggests. "You can use your magic to snap it in two. Then he'll be free of the dark curse."

Gold takes off the dog collar and throws it across the room, then lies back in peace, waiting for Henry's decision.

Henry looks to his father. "What should I do, Dad?"

Bae takes an involuntary step backwards, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. He shakes his head slowly, then looks to his own father.

"I'm tired. I'm ready to let go, Bae," Gold answers.

"We've had our day; we have to think about the next generation now. There's a reason Henry has magic, a destiny waiting for him," Bae says thoughtfully. "Maybe you're part of that destiny. Who will teach Henry, if not you?"

"I made you a deal, a long time ago. It's time I made good on my word."

Bae understands what Gold is really asking. "I'm not going anywhere, Papa. Magic or no magic."

"Then do what you think is right, son."

Bae comes forward and grips his father's hand between his two strong ones. "Henry, it's time this family made a new deal." He reaches out, and Henry slips his hand into Bae's, linking the three generations. "Operation: Stand and Fight. No more running. We're all here for the duration. Deal?"

Henry passes the dagger into Gold's free hand. "Deal."


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

**A/N. Dearies, one of the saddest aspects of season 2, to me, is the fact that Bae is apparently spending no time at all with his father. He's not even staying in that big house while he's in town. For crying out loud, they've been apart for a couple hundred years and they're not even getting together for coffee! So with this story I'm indulging in some wish fulfilment, beginning with Bae, and then Tamara, and finally Belle. Oh, and Dove's tale of his part in the Second Ogres War, I've taken that from parts of "Skin Deep" that were cut from the episode but were discussed in the commentary for the DVD set.**

* * *

**Granny's 3:09 pm**

The sign above the entrance says "Yes, We're Open," even though a glance through the plate glass window shows the restaurant to be empty. But Slightly has a mission to perform, and with the sheriff's office also empty, a restaurant seems like as good a place as any to start, so he swings the door open, causing the business bell overhead to tinkle. "Hello?" He stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets as he waits awkwardly at the counter for the wait staff to appear.

When they do, he takes a hasty step backward and raises his hands in surrender. "Hey, I just came in for a cup of coffee and some information," he says to the notched crossbow that is now welcoming him to Granny's Café. It's difficult to tear his eyes away from the weapon, but when he does he encounters his second shock: the archer is a little, white-haired lady in a Sunday-school dress and support hose. "Granny, I presume?"

"Sorry." Granny lowers the crossbow. "I was just on my way to the hospital."

"Protesting the rising cost of prescriptions?"

The little lady snorts in a very unladylike manner. "Gonna exchange a few words with our mayor."

"Wouldn't a recall election be less messy?" He nods at the weapon.

A tall, lithe brunette pops up behind Madame Crossbow. "Oh, Granny, put that away." She directs her attention to the newcomer. "I'm sorry, sir; things are kind of screwed up right now. Half the town's over at the hospital."

"I know." Slightly plops himself onto a red pleather stool. He's never been a name dropper, but in a town this size, it makes sense that everyone knows everyone else, so to save time he adds, "I'm a friend of Mr. Gold's."

"A friend?" Granny raises the crossbow again.

Slightly backpedals. "An acquaintance." He sighs and slides off the stool. "Guess I came to the wrong place. Sorry to have bothered you." He turns to leave, but the girl calls him back.

"Sir, please, pay no attention to my grandmother. She's—having a bad day." The brunette moves behind the counter, touches her palm to the coffee pots on the hot plate to determine their warmth, and takes a ceramic cup from under the counter. "Here, let me get you a cup, on the house. Decaf or regular?"

"Decaf," Slightly smiles. "Things are antsy enough already."

Granny shoulders her crossbow. "I'm going back to the hospital."

"No, you're not, Granny," the brunette argues as she pours the coffee and sets out a napkin and a spoon. "David's there; he'll take care of Regina. You'll just make things worse. Sir, would you like to see a menu?"

"I'll be back for dinner later, but right now, I need to find someone. I have a message to deliver." Slightly sits back down, holds out his hand in greeting. "My name's Hayden Caulfield."

The brunette wipes her hands on a towel before accepting his handshake. "I'm Ruby. And that was Granny." She nods to the kitchen door, which has just thumped shut. "She's a great cook. Really. You just caught us at a bad time."

"Do you run the inn next door too? I'm going to need a room for the night, I think."

"We do. I can take you over there when you're ready, get you registered. Who is it you're looking for?"

He pours a little cream into his coffee—it's real cream, not the powered junk—and stirs, allowing the beverage to cool. "Her name is Belle. I don't know her last name."

Ruby suddenly turns away, busying herself with the dishtowel. "That's all right. There's only one Belle in town."

"Where can I find her?"

Ruby still won't look at him and he's beginning to squirm. "I can take the message to her."

He sips his coffee. "Hey, this is good. I'll be looking forward to having dinner here." He sets the mug down and tilts his head, trying to see her face. "The message is very personal. From a friend of hers. I promised I'd see she gets it."

"I see." Ruby turns around and wipes down the counter. "Well, the thing is, I'm not sure where she is right now. There was a disturbance—"

"Regina and Cora."

Ruby jerks her head up and finally looks at him again. "You know about them?"

"I came in on the _Jolly Roger_," Slightly says gently, "with Rumplestiltskin."

Her mouth drops open. "You're from. . . there?"

He shakes his head. "Not exactly. Have you heard of Neverland?"

Her hand is shaking as she fetches another mug and pours a cup of regular. She grabs a bottle from the liquor stash against the back wall and unscrews the cap, splashing some of the golden brown liquid into her mug. With a raised eyebrow she holds the bottle over his mug; when he nods she adds a splash to his coffee. She sips her Irish coffee thoughtfully, then offers her hand to him, and he shakes it again, puzzled. "I'm Little Red. Of the Enchanted Forest."

He smiles. "I'm Slightly, of the Lost Boys." He reaches into his windbreaker pocket. The letter is crumpled already; he lays it on the counter and smoothes it out carefully. "This letter is from Rumplestiltskin, to the woman he loves."

Red glances from the letter to its bearer, sizing them both up. "It's not his handwriting," she mutters.

"It's mine. He dictated it to me. He couldn't hold the quill."

"I really shouldn't do this, but. . . ." She reads the letter through. "Wow. It's beautiful." She reads it through again. "It's a goodbye letter. Does he still want you to give it to her? Looks like he's going to pull through."

Slightly cocks a smile. "All the more reason she should have this."

Red folds the letter carefully and returns it to him. She leans on her elbows as she considers her decision. "Did he tell you about her? About what Hook did to her?"

The smile vanishes and Slightly sets his coffee cup down. "No."

"Well, it's a long story; if you stick around, you'll probably hear the whole thing. But to get to the point, those of us who live here—we're stuck here. We're under a curse that makes it impossible for us to leave."

"How did Rumplestiltskin manage to come to New York, then?"

"He concocted a curse-breaking potion, but there wasn't much of it. Just enough for one person to go out. Belle went to the town boundary with him to see him off, and Hook followed him. He shot her; she fell over the boundary and the curse wiped out her memory. She doesn't remember her own name, let alone who he is. There's no cure; no medicine, no magic."

Slightly swears and shakes his head slowly.

"So I don't know if this is a good idea, showing her this letter. You see what I mean? I mean, if it was me, this letter would drive me crazy. To find out a guy loved me like that, and now I can't even remember him."

"I see what you mean." Slightly sips his coffee as he thinks it over. "It could hurt—or it jog her memory. Or if she never gets her memory back, maybe this letter could be the start of something new between them."

Red looks at him in surprise. "You sound like a true romantic."

He shrugs. "I've done some realm hopping in my time. There's all kinds of things people believe, but the one constant, I found, is belief in the power of love."

Red makes her choice. "It used to bug Belle that people kept trying to make decisions for her. Let's go ask her if she wants to see this letter or not. I don't know where she is right now, but I think I know who she's with. His office is across the street. We'll start there."

**Storybrooke General Hospital 3:13 pm**

"Okay, you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here," a fresh orderly pokes her head in, and she makes a shooing motion. She seems blithely unaware that a moment ago her co-worker was a small green plant with spikes. "Visiting hours are 7-9 pm. Maximum of two visitors at a time. Out with you now. Mr. Gold needs his rest."

"See ya later, Grampa." Henry gives Gold a quick peck on the cheek. "Glad Hook didn't kill you!"

Gold's eyes widen but he doesn't shrink from the kiss. "Me too," he mumbles. "See ya."

"Call me if she shows up again." David doesn't need to clarify which _she_ he means. As Snow links her arm in his, he takes Henry's hand. "Let's go find your mom, tell her what's happened."

As the visitors say their goodbyes and file out, two remain behind: the silent Mr. Dove, who stands beside his boss' bed, and the perplexed Baelfire. "Never a dull moment," Bae tries to lighten the mood. "Listen, you try to get some rest, huh?" He weighs the dagger in his hand. "I guess I'll find someplace to stash this."

"Far away from Storybrooke," Gold advises. "But not in New York. Hook knows you live there."

Bae slips the dagger into his hoodie. "You, uh, want me to bring you anything? Clothes? Shaving gear? Something to read?"

"Mr. Dove will pack a bag for me."

Bae shuffles from foot to foot, then makes up his mind. "Okay then." He starts forward.

Gold calls him back. "Bae? You and the guys will need a place to stay. I have a four-bedroom house."

"Yeah. Thanks."

"I think that shoe-stealin' bastard took my keys, but Mr. Dove can let you in. You'll need some clothes—Dove will give you my credit card, if Whale didn't swipe that too."

Dove pushes away from the wall he's been leaning against. "I'll take you back to the house, Master Baelfire."

"Okay." Then Bae abruptly wheels and strides back to his father's bedside. He follows his son's example and kisses Gold's cheek, and the old man rolls over and stares up at him. In a hushed tone, Gold says, "Thanks."

Bae seems to have something caught in his throat. "One helluva fight you put up today, Dad. One helluva fight."

"I've had a lot of practice."

"See ya tonight at visiting hour, huh?"

As Dove leads the way from the room, he glances back at his employer. Gold's eyes are ringed with exhaustion, but as he closes them, a small smile steals across his lips—and then becomes a full-blown grin.

He looks so much younger, Dove thinks, when he smiles.

**Mayor's mansion 3:30 pm**

Regina runs herself a bubble bath. It's hot, steaming hot, yet she steps in without hesitation: she relishes the burn. She sinks in deep and sighs, and she doesn't care when her hair dampens. She slides in all the way, dunking her head under, holding her breath to the count of one hundred thirty—one of many little exercises in discipline that Rumplestiltskin taught her when she first came to the Dark Castle to train with him. When she was young and raw from the loss of Daniel. When she still saw the world in terms of negotiation and compromise.

How long ago was that? She can't tell by looking at herself in the mirror: magic has preserved her beauty and most of her youthfulness, but she has a clue it was a long, long time ago. Many battles, a few losses, and many wins ago.

Has she won this time? Usually her victories are decisive, but this time it was Rumplestiltskin she went up against; even when you win against him, you're liable to feel you've lost. She and Cora failed to accomplish their aims: it was their own fault, for they were pursuing conflicting goals. She'd known that all along, yet she'd hoped in the end Cora would choose family over magic. They lost, but their losses are slight, and they may in the end have gained something with the return of Cora's heart. But Henry. . . standing against her like that, openly defying her, threatening her. Something must be done about Henry; prolonged exposure to the Charmings is corrupting him, and even if she didn't love him—even if she didn't need him—simple logic would dictate that she must win him back.

How could it be that she'd raised this boy from infancy, yet had never seen the signs of his power? Child of Light, Child of Dark: of course he'd be special. Though Gold had arranged the adoption, had set the three-week-old babe in her waiting arms, he, the great prognosticator, hadn't envisioned Henry's future, hadn't sensed the power sleeping in the sleeping child. Before surrendering him, the mighty imp had peered into the face of this baby and had seen his own large brown eyes looking back at him—and hadn't known it. Hadn't recognized his own grandchild. Had surrendered his own flesh and blood to his sometime-enemy/all-the-time rival without the least inkling.

Regina breaks from the water, sputtering and gasping. One hundred fifty!

That was her greatest victory over the Dark One, though it's taken eleven years to be revealed. She giggles, bathwater dripping from her hair into her mouth, and she wonders how long it will take before he comes to the same realization: _she_ has (more or less) legal custody of his son's son. _She_ is the rightful mother of the product of the product of Rumplestiltskin's loins. And _she_ has raised the child who will someday triumph over him. Even more significantly, this has come about not as a scheme of his or a theft of hers, but as an act of the Fates.

The Fates have chosen Regina over him, over Snow, over all of them. The contest isn't over yet, but it's preordained: Regina has won.

**Gold's house 3:30 pm**

The Lost Boys are respectfully quiet as they enter behind Mr. Dove. No one mentions the fact that the house is pink: considering who the owner is and what he's capable of, he can damn well paint his house any color he likes. Dove shows them around, informs them that they are welcome to enter any unlocked room; the locked rooms, especially the basement, are not to be attempted. Just to emphasize the point (for you can take the Lost Boy out of Neverland but you can't take Neverland out of the Lost Boy), Dove grasps the knob to the basement door and an alarm sounds.

Bae scowls. He has a good idea what's down there.

Before he leaves, Dove gives them his phone number and the credit card, but he adds, "You really don't need it." He instructs Bae, "Anything you want—clothes, food, whatever—while you're here, just say your name and they'll know who to charge it to."

"The power of names." Bae remembers another time, another place, when his father studied that subject in the Dark One's books.

"You probably won't have to do that much," Dove says. "Before the day's out, everyone in town will know who you are."

Nibs asks, "First Lost Boys in Storybrooke?"

"First visitors in Storybrooke. Ever."

"How about that," Nibs muses. "We're a boon to the local economy."

"You guys might want to make a grocery run," Dove advises.

"The kitchen seems pretty well-stocked," Curly reports, his head in the refrigerator.

"Yeah, but everything there is low-fat, no-sodium or decaf. I, uh, do his shopping. The grocer repackages it all for me so that Mr. Gold thinks he's eating regular food." Dove draws himself up to full height. "You won't tell him that, will you?"

The Lost Boys hastily agree to keep the secret. "Okay, boys, let's go shopping," Curly suggests, and Dove hands him a set of keys, pointing out the purpose of each: "House key, garage key, car key."

"Gold must be one generous dude," Nibs speculates. "His credit card, house, car. . . ."

Dove's face is solemn. "_Mr._ Gold always pays his debts. In his view, he owes you men a favor." As the boys gather at the front door, Dove stops them. "Before you go: Mr. Gold is a private man. Few people have been allowed into his home. He would appreciate it if you wouldn't. . . "

"Go pokin' our noses where we've got no business?" Twin One suggests.

"Blab about what we see here?" Twin Two finishes.

Dove nods. "Know also that Mr. Gold owns most of the property in this town, and as a result, people tend to be envious and resentful. _I_ would appreciate it if you would show some discretion in your replies to any negative comments you hear. There are, after all, two sides to every story."

"Don't we know it," Nibs mutters. "We know a thing or two about being misjudged, Mr. Dove."

Dove nods again and walks with them onto the porch. He points south: "Town square is one mile that way. You'll find a number of shops around the square. Keep going south another mile, then turn right on MacAldonich Avenue. The grocery is on the on the left."

"I'm going to go see Henry. You guys go on without me," Bae says.

"We'll bring you back a change of clothes. Thanks, Mr. D." The boys clamber down the stairs and to the garage. A whoop rises when the garage door does: "It's a Caddy! Boys, we're ridin' in style!"

Dove and Bae chuckle as they watch the Caddy back out of the drive. "I need to gather a few things to take to the hospital," Dove says, opening the front door.

"Mind if I tag along?"

Dove peers at him, then understands what Bae really wants. "Of course, Master Baelfire." As the men pass through the quiet rooms filled with a mismatched collection of antiques, Bae stares. He's trying to learn something about his father by examining how the man lives; Dove understands that and allows him to take his time looking around.

They pass through the parlor to the dining room. "He's cleaned the place up quite a bit in the past few months, getting ready for you. Used to be nearly impossible to navigate these rooms for all the clutter—things waiting to be fixed, cleaned, and taken to the shop."

"He has a shop? What does he sell?"

Dove pauses to look at Bae. The older man's expression tells a rich tale of sadness, determination, trial-and-error-and-trial-again. "I'll be happy to tell you as much as I know, Master Bae. My information is limited; I've been part of his search for only the past two years, since he awoke, but I know the search goes back much, much farther."

"What do you mean, 'since he awoke'?" Bae touches a brightly painted carousel horse that's leaning against an unstrung cello in the dining room. He wonders where the horse came from and what his father means to do with it. There's so much he doesn't know about his father, he realizes—so much he needs to find out before he leaves Storybrooke. . . or stays.

"The curse lifted from him several months before it was broken for the rest of us."

"I want to hear about the curse, and about this town, and Emma and Henry. And him."

"I'm glad to tell you what I know, but I hope you'll ask him too. He'll have no secrets from you. He's been waiting a long time, Master Baelfire."

In a low voice, Bae echoes, "So have I."

Dove leads him to the kitchen and then to the back stairs that lead to the bedrooms. "Mr. Dove, did you know him, back there?"

"He saved my life. I was wounded during the Second Ogres War."

"The Second?" This news lies heavy; somehow, Bae had assumed that one ogres' war would have been enough, after the Dark One ended it. "You were a soldier?"

Dove shakes his head. "A messenger for the Duke of Avonlea." He turns away. "And a preferred pet of his daughter, the Lady Belle. The war was going badly, and the Duke sent me to the Dark Castle with a plea for assistance from your father; I was injured in flight, and your father healed me with his magic. I've worked for him ever since, as a messenger there and a sort of handyman here."

"'Flight'? 'Pet'?"

Dove throws a crooked grin at him. "In those days, I had a different form. The curse changed me—but preserved my name."

"Dove," Bae mutters, then he figures it out. "Dove. You were an actual dove."

Dove has led him upstairs and into a spacious, airy bedroom with a window seat and a four-poster bed. "Your father's room." He opens a closet and finds a suitcase, which he picks up and walks out with.

"Wait, don't you need to pack it?" Bae wonders.

"It's already packed." Dove glances back at him. "It's been packed for two years." He walks back to the hallway. "He'll want his shaving kit."

Bae remains a moment in the bedroom. The furniture and the appointments are nice but nothing extraordinary, but on the dresser is a cluster of framed photos. They're of various sizes, but all of the same subject: a blue-eyed brunette, usually smiling for the camera. Bae picks them up one by one, but he doesn't remember this woman; possibly she isn't from their old world. Her smile isn't of the sort one friend gives another—it's the sort of smile one lover gives another. Bae sets the photos down hastily as he remembers that Emma gave him such a smile—just this morning. Tamara never has.

As he turns to follow Dove to the master bath, Bae spies a sketch mounted on the wall near the closet. It's not the work of some renowned artist, but Bae recognizes it and suspects his father values it as priceless.

Bae remembers clearly the afternoon he posed for this portrait. It was two weeks before Hordor's men robbed the village of Loameth of ten of their children. . .two weeks and three days before Rumplestiltskin the spinner and artist became the seventy-fifth Dark One.

"Master Baelfire?" Suitcase in one hand, shaving kit in the other, Dove appears at Bae's elbow.

Bae clears his throat, still staring at the portrait. So many aches, so many what if's and why's. The shaggy-haired boy in the portrait has such a straightforward gaze, such an open heart. He would've despised the felon and the dodger who stands before him now. Bae truly is a Lost Boy.

"It feels weird," he admits, and Dove knows he means everything here feels weird. He tears his eyes from the portrait. "I'm nobody's 'master' here, Mr. Dove. Call me. . . call me Bae."

Dove bows slightly. "And I'm Frank—though if you call me that when he's around, he'll bark at you for impudence. I need to get back to the hospital, but I can stay a little while. Shall we go down to the kitchen, have a cup of coffee and a chat, Bae?"


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

**A/N. A little breather from the action, to give our characters time to reflect and connect (another thing I'd like to see more of in OUAT, especially for those principal relationships that drive the main storyline), but Tamara's on her way. . . .**

* * *

**Archie's Office 4:40 pm**

They've had to wait more than an hour for Belle, but Slightly doesn't mind. He's a naturally easy-going guy, and when Red removes her apron and offers to provide a tour of Storybrooke, the wait becomes all the easier. Besides, when Red phones Hopper and learns the reason for the delay, he'd be a cad to be less than patient. So he and Red stroll around the town square, and as she points out the more interesting aspects of what appears on the surface to be a quaint, sleepy village, his hand just naturally reaches out for her non-pointing hand. He can think of no better way to burn an hour.

When Archie and Belle catch up to them outside the former's office, their frazzled state rubs off on Red. Slightly feels sorry—not just for Belle, but for Red, who feels a frustration of her own, that she can't help her friend—can't even tell her the whole truth, because Belle freaks out whenever magic is mentioned, so the whole town has been withholding information from her. Slightly objects to this approach: everyone seems to think that Belle's condition is caused by some physical or emotional trauma, and that when she feels better, her memories will come tiptoeing back. But, he argues, the cause is magic, and time and deception will fix nothing. Of course he's never met Belle; he's not even a native of the Enchanted Forest, so he has no right to speak, he admits. Still, the portrait that Rumplestiltskin painted of Belle, as he lay dying, leads Slightly to think that one of these days soon she will get fed up with the kid-glove treatment and will demand full disclosure.

Red tilts her head to consider his suggestion. "You know," she says at last, "I really hate hiding things from her. But what if the truth about this place pushes her over the edge?"

"Can it be any worse than it is now? She's got to know everyone's lying to her."

"Hmm." Red falls silent until they pass under a clock tower. "It's after five. They should be back from the hospital now."

He can understand the temptation to treat the girl like a china doll, though, Slightly thinks as Red introduces him to Belle and Archie. When she shakes his hand and ducks her head a little, he concludes that she's shy. When he looks into her striking blue eyes, he sees something familiar: she's a Lost one too. He can almost hear the scream behind her eyes. He wonders if Red's right that the letter might make things worse, as it informs her that someone out there loves her deeply and forever, and yet she can't remember a single moment of their time together. But Belle must be allowed to decide how much truth she can handle.

He keeps it short and direct. The way Red and Archie act around her, he suspects she's been kid-glove-handled ever since Hook attacked her, and the plea in her eyes as she looks back at him convinces him she's more than ready for straight talk. So Slightly explains, without sugar-coating, how the letter came to be written. "Mr. Gold's expected to be okay," he assures her. "But under the circumstances, I figured it would do more good if I gave you this letter anyway. He might rather I give it back to him, but I think the ball should be in your court. I mean, if you feel—felt—half as much for him as he feels for you, you're better together. And even if you don't, Hook's still a threat to both of you; I figure you'd be safer if you stuck together. But it's your call." He holds the letter out. "I just don't think you should walk away without at least trying to find out whether you and him were the real deal."

A glance from the corner of his eye tells him Archie thinks this is a mistake, but the shrink won't interfere. But it isn't Archie that Slightly's asking, and maybe if people start giving this girl some information so that she can think for herself, she'll start to feel more like herself. As he holds the letter out and Belle struggles to decide whether to accept it, Slightly begins to doubt himself. After all, he's no shrink; he doesn't even know these people. But he does know Hook, and that's why Belle needs to be brought up to speed as quickly as possible.

And maybe, just a little, he knows Gold. You don't hear a guy pour his heart out to his girl without learning something about him. Yeah, Slightly decides, he's doing the right thing. If Belle and Gold are going to bust up, it should be because they can't stand each other, not because of some pirate. Besides, Slightly would get an immense kick out of seeing the look on Hook's face when he comes roaring back into town and runs smack-dab into a healthy, happy and ready-for-action Mr. and Mrs. Gold.

Belle takes the letter and thanks him. She doesn't open it.

Archie mumbles some polite and trite words signaling a farewell, and Red leads Slightly outside again. His mission over, he can relax now, for the moment—knowing Petey, though, this is just a rest stop. The Boys will be headed back for New York—and Hook—in a day or two. "Little Red," he says, "will you join me for dinner? I'm ready for that menu now."

"A little reward for doing your good deed of the day?"

"Hope so, Red. If you could've heard his voice when he was telling me what to write. . . yeah. A _good_ deed."

**Room 304, 5 pm**

"How's your Jell-o?"

Gold hasn't touched it, nor the watery beef broth, nor the fat-free yoghurt; he hasn't even drawn the wheeled dinner tray towards him. After an hour of uninterrupted sleep, he was awakened fifteen minutes ago by a disgustingly cheery orderly who still lives with her parents in a symbiotic relationship created by the curse: they live off her income, she lives off them. He knows this because he owns the house they live in. They are not behind in their rent, however, so she can afford to be cheery.

Whale leans against the door jamb. He needs a shave and a comb, but that's okay; Gold is his last patient of the day; he can go home soon. . . to a house Gold owns.

"Little Miss Sunshine woke me from a much needed sleep for this sheep dip." Gold gestures to the tray.

"Well, it's Thursday. Thursdays are sheep dip; Fridays are cow patties. Stick around for Sunday dinner: that's when we serve tonsils, gall bladders, appendixes—all the leftovers from the week's surgeries."

Gold folds his arms. "Mr. Dove will bring me a steak."

"No he won't. You're on a liquid diet for the next three days. Your body took quite a pulverizing; it's not ready for big boy food."

"You're doing this for revenge, aren't you?" Gold mutters. "First my shoes, now my steak."

Whale chuckles. "As a wise man once said, 'Magic, despite all its ancient lore and mystery, is but a candle flickering in the darkness of ignorance, compared to the blazing sun of science.'"

"Yeah, well, I was drugged at the time. When do I get to go home?"

"That's right, you've got a son to go home to now, don't you? Congratulations. You finish your bowl of sheep dip and maybe I'll let you go home on Monday."

"Oh for cryin' out loud, you pill pushin'—"

"'Magic, despite all its ancient lore and mystery'"—and Whale's recitation fades as he wanders back down the hall, to go home.

Gold grabs his phone and texts Mr. Dove: _check renewal date for Whale's lease. It's time to raise the needle jockey's rent. And bring me a ste—_then he hits the back key and retypes: _bowl of soup. Tomato, from Granny's. And my pyjamas._

**Room 304, 7 pm**

Bae arrives promptly at 7 p.m., the start of visiting hours. Dove beat him to it, waltzing in to Room 304 at a little after 6: the staff pretended not to notice as he walked through the corridors, big and bold as brass. Few people ever bothered Mr. Dove.

"Crap, Dad, you're bleeding!" Bae turns to shout for a doctor but Gold stops him.

"No, no, I'm fine." Gold follows Bae's line of sight to a bright red streak on his pyjamas. "It's soup." He points to the heart monitor to which he's still attached. "It's hard to handle a spoon when you're tied up."

Bae draws up a chair. "Oh. How ya doin'? Get any sleep?"

"I was sleeping fine until the Jell-O Queen woke me and tried to inject me with lemon-lime. How about you?"

"I've been walking around town. Walked Henry back to Emma's, had supper with them. Listen, Dad, as soon as they let you out of here, Emma and the boys and me are going back to New York to look for Hook. We've got to stop him before he comes back here—or before the Bloods or MS-13 get a hold of him."

Gold starts to argue, but it's Bae he's talking to: Bae the bold. And Bae's right: Hook can't be allowed to wander in the non-magical world. So Gold nods and takes a different approach. "Emma, huh?"

"Well, she's good at finding people."

"I see." But clearly, from the sparkle in his eyes, Gold has another thought in mind.

"Don't go there. Dad, I have a girlfriend. Almost a wife. We're planning on getting married on New Year's Day." Bae digs out his phone and shows Gold some photos. "Her name is Tamara. She owns a rare book shop in Manhattan. I've asked her to drive up for the weekend—got her a reservation at Granny's. I, uh, I'd like to bring her by to meet you."

Gold touches the tiny screen as though touching his future daughter-in-law's cheek. "I'd like that. Thank you."

"I haven't told her about Henry yet. Still getting used to the idea of fatherhood, I guess."

"You'll find your way, son. And if she's meant for you, she'll help you find it." Gold's eyes cloud for just a moment as he remembers the women who weren't meant for him: Milah, Cora. . . Belle. He's lived a long time and he knows that sometimes True Love isn't enough.

He recalls an evening just four months ago, he and Belle, relaxing on his couch, her head in his lap, a bowl of popcorn passing between them as they watched a DVD from her ever-expanding collection. A chick flick, he'd thought, but he was so happy just to be with her that it didn't matter if no one got punched out, shot, stabbed or blown up. A classic, she had announced as she pressed the key on his remote. And she was right. As she was about most things. _"I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world."_

Nor do the problems of a former duchess and the former Dark One. The Fates have bigger issues to deal with, apparently.

_But after _Casablanca_, Belle had discovered _To Have and Have Not_, and then she was hooked. She read biographies of Bogart and Bacall, bought up all their movies. "He was more than 20 years older than she was. He had a reputation for hard living. A tough guy, that's how he wanted the world to see him. But she saw through him. She loved him for everything he was, and he accepted her for everything she was. And in the time they were together, they made each other better."_

_Gold smiled wryly. "Do I hear a less-than-subtle message here?"_

"_A proof that love works."_

"_Oh, I never doubted that, sweetheart." He had kissed her hand. "I've seen your power and I'm in awe of it."_

"_But you doubt yourself, even now."_

"_The Dark One is immortal, Belle. I'll never be rid of him."_

"_Love can break any curse. It worked for Bogie and Bacall. Why shouldn't it work for Rumplestiltskin and Belle?"_

"_My eternal optimist. Keep believing, Belle, and I'll do my best to believe too." _

"Tell me about her," Gold urges. "Tell me about Tamara." And he watches closely as Bae describes his wife-to-be. . . and he begins to wonder, because he sees neither excitement nor sentiment in his son's expression as he tells the story. Rather, what he sees is a lonely man who's found someone to lean on.

A tendency to run away isn't the only quality that's been passed down through this family, Gold thinks with shame; so has the dependence upon crutches. But maybe the Fates strengthened the bloodline when they introduced the DNA of heroes. Henry will break his paternal line's curse of cowardice.

And if Bae sticks around, maybe he'll wake up to the opportunity that's been sat in his lap: the father and the son who are waiting for him—and the wife that the Fates selected for him. Nothing against Tamara—Gold is sure she must be a nice enough woman, if Bae cares for her—but he's equally sure she's not meant to be Bae's wife. In the threads of life Clotho has woven for this family, Bae already has a wife.

Maybe this excursion to hunt down Hook will serve a higher purpose.

**Room 666, 7 pm**

Cora is awake, sitting up and flipping through a worn issue of _House Beautiful_. That's the first thing Regina notices as she sails, head high, past one of the dwarves (she's not sure which, but at least it's not the pushy drunk).

Cora hasn't touched the meal on her tray: the grilled fish, fruit cocktail, wheat roll and green beans. That's the next thing Regina notices.

"You really should try to eat something," Regina prompts. She's nervous, and when she gets nervous she gets bossy. She doesn't know what to expect: after all, she's never spoken to her mother under such circumstances—Cora sick, vulnerable. . . and carrying her heart inside her. "You need nourishment."

"I need food," Cora complains. "This is. . .what do you call that material you people make boxes out of?"

"Cardboard." Clue number one that Cora hasn't changed: she lumped her daughter in with "people."

"My magic seems to have dissipated," Cora says. "Would you mind? I'd really like a meal like you cooked for me last night."

"I'm sure your magic will return when you're better. And I'm sure the hospital meal would be better for you than steak and potatoes." Regina sits down in the guest chair. "How do you feel, Mother? Did you get some rest?"

"At least they've unhooked me from those infernal machines. The doctor says I can go home on Monday." She looks meaningfully at her daughter; she's waiting for an invitation that doesn't come. Of course she will live with Regina, but Regina doesn't have to like it. Cora turns the magazine around and points to a five-piece bedroom set. "Isn't this lovely, dear? Of course, the way you have the guest room decorated now is nice, but the mattress is rather lumpy, and I thought, as long as we're replacing the bed, why not get something more modern?"

Regina glances at the glossy spread. "Mother, that magazine is from 1985."

Cora frowns slightly. "And what year is this?"

Regina leans forward, pushing the magazine away. "Mother, this is my world. Not yours."

Cora's lips quiver a little. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you need to listen to me."

Cora folds the magazine and stares at her hands. "It is your world, and without magic, I'm powerless."

"I didn't mean it that—"

"No. You're right, Regina. I understand that now. But you must understand, I was the decision maker for so long. I was always the one who knew what to do, and when. But this is your world, your life, and all I want is to be part of it. If you'll let me in?" She strokes Regina's hair, seemingly ignorant of the fact that she's mussing up a carefully styled 'do. "Things are different now. That thirst for control, that hunger for power; I don't feel any of that now. What I feel"—she places her hand over her heart—"for the first time, what I feel is a need for other people. I want to get to know you, Regina: I realize now I never did. And Henry—I want to know him and get to love him too."

Regina narrows her eyes. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

"I had power. I had status and wealth. I had them on their knees, and I felt nothing." She brushes a stray lock from Regina's forehead. "When I awoke this evening, for the first time that I can remember, I felt content. I had a home and a daughter to go back to, and that meant more to me than all the titles and all the toadies I had in the old world."

"Really, Mother?"

"Really." She rubs Regina's back in little circles. "When power is all you know, force is how you get things done. I can feel it now, Regina, that we went about this in the wrong way. If we want Henry in our family, we need to give him the sort of family he wants to belong to. Tell me about Henry, darling. Help me to understand him."

Regina rests her head against her mother's shoulder and begins to talk.

**Room 304, 9 pm**

A woman in white wanders in, pokes a thermometer in his mouth and straps a blood pressure cuff onto his arm. "Time to say your goodbyes," she cautions the visitors. She knows one of them, the sheriff; the other is one of the strangers she's been hearing about. There's another man, a big, solemn man standing in the corner, but she doesn't count him as a visitor. She doesn't remember his name, but she knows he's here to guard the patient, and considering the afternoon's disturbance, that's a good thing and she won't interfere. To the others she says, "You can come back at 10 tomorrow morning."

"Sorry, Dad, maybe she'll come tomorrow," Bae says. Earlier tonight, he informed Gold that Slightly delivered the letter to Belle and updated her on Gold's condition; they've both been glancing at the doorway every five minutes just in case. "Guess we'd better head out."

"You guys got everything you need, then?"

"Yeah. I'll see you at 10." Bae stands, pats his father's shoulder. "Sleep well."

Gold raises himself. His chest still hurts but another ache needs tending to. He closes his hands, now free of all electronics, around his son's cheek and draws him in. In a whisper—for he is Gold, and he has an image to maintain—he says, "I love you, son." He presses his lips to Bae's forehead.

"Love you too, Dad."

Bae stands back, and Emma, scrunching up her face, slides her arms about Gold's shoulders. "I know you're not the hugging type; me neither, but I'll never hear the end of it if I don't pass this along for Henry."

Gold allows the hug. Maybe he even hugs back, just a little. It's none of his business—Bae and Emma are adults; they know their own hearts—but he's just one kiss shy of calling Emma "daughter." Well, if there's one thing Rumplestiltskin has learned over three centuries of studying human nature, it's that when it comes to love, people have to find their own way.

And if there's one thing he knows about Emma, it's that she can find anybody, even a Lost Boy.

**Gold's house, 10 pm**

Falling back into old, bachelor habits, the Lost Boys are downstairs in the living room, watching TV and eating pizza. This has been an adventure for them, and despite protests from wives, girlfriends/boyfriends and employers, they're going to see it through, until Hook has been sent back to Neverland (or if magic can't accomplish that, to jail). Hook is their problem; Hook, they understand. The other troublemakers—the witches they've been hearing about—they'll leave to Rumplestiltskin and Petey.

Bae is upstairs. In selecting their rooms for the night, the Boys naturally steered clear of the master bedroom: it's only right that Petey should have that one. But Petey surprised them, claiming, without explanation, the smallest of the four bedrooms, the one closest to the master bedroom. He's there now, lying in the dark in the twin bed. Too much has happened today and there's too little he's learned, so he's restless, but he now has a warm, comfortable feeling that was never there before, like he's just filled in the last pieces of a jigsaw it's taken years to put together and though it looks nothing like the picture on the box, the image this puzzle has formed pleases him. Maybe, even, it's better than he'd expected.

When he first entered this room, however, he had a moment of doubt. The furnishings here are all half-size. The dresser is filled with t-shirts, jeans, jockey shorts and socks for a kid; the trunk at the foot of the bed is filled with sports equipment. The closet's filled with toys and games.

Dove had told him a bunch of other stuff this afternoon—Bae now even knows what kind of music the old man listens to when he thinks nobody's around. So why the hell didn't Dove tell him he had a brother?

Because clearly he does. What else is this bedroom for, if not some kid? And where is he now, this kid? More aggressively, Bae digs through the room's holdings again, seeking clues. He's pissed when he finds his old fishing pole on the closet shelf. Not that he would want it back, but it kind of bugs him that the old man's giving away his stuff without asking.

From the stuff in the trunk, it's apparent the kid likes pretty much the same activities Bae did—or would have, if he'd grown up here. The books are all action-adventure stories; some of them are the choose-your-own ending type. Bae would've liked these when he was a kid, if they could've afforded books. In the closet is a chemistry kit—oh ho, sneaky old Rumple is trying to win the new kid over to magic by introducing him to the wonders of science.

Something odd, though: none of the boxes have been opened. None of the clothes have been removed from their packaging. Huh. Maybe it's like his situation with Henry: maybe Gold's a weekend father, with the weekends being months or years apart.

Bae can almost feel sorry for the old man. Losing two sons has got to hurt.

He sits down on the bed and idly flips through some of the books. He wonders if he'll meet his brother before he and Emma take off for New York.

Downstairs, the boys break out in raucous laughter; they're watching a classic they rented at the grocery: _Animal House_. Thanks to Mr. Dove, Bae knows his father's a closet Westerns aficionado, but he never watches the same movie twice.

Bae picks up _Riders of the Purple Sage_, wonders if they've read it together, Rumple and his son. He flips back the cover and finds a nameplate—and that changes everything. Now he understands what this room is for, and now he knows his father, for all his prophecy and research, would have been better off if he'd brushed up on basic arithmetic, because Rumple's calculations were off by about 220 years.

The name inscribed in the book is Baelfire.

**Room 304, 10 pm**

The evil nurse has turned out the lights and has banished Dove to the hallway. She made him put his phone in a drawer, but not before he checked one last time for messages (several get-well wishes but none from the person he most wishes to hear from tonight). After the lights went out, he poked around among the plants on his nightstand: no roses, no cards signed "Belle."

Of course not. It wouldn't have been logical. To her, he's a stranger, maybe even a stalker.

He lies back. He should send Dove home, but the man would only come back. It's perplexing: he doesn't pay Dove well enough to merit such loyalty.

He closes his eyes, but he won't sleep. _Won't_, not _can't_. He'll never admit it to Frankenstein, but that pain-killer he prescribed works pretty well. Gold won't sleep, though, because he doesn't want to dream. If he dreams, it's likely to be of that endless stretch of empty rooms. He doesn't ever want to go back there, even in his thoughts. It's what he deserves, it's his destiny, but he's going to run from it as long as he can. Besides, he has too much to live for now.

**Granny's B & B, Room 7, 10 pm**

The girl the hospital calls Jane Doe shivers. It's not that the room is cold; oh no, Granny turned the heat on when she brought her up here after supper. It's just that she's uncomfortable being behind a closed door with no nurse to check up on her every two hours. There's no one in rooms 1-6 (Granny and Ruby live in an apartment on the third floor), but Granny left the hallway light on so that it kind of reminds Jane of the hospital. Jane turns on the little TV and tries to fall asleep to the classic movie channel.

"_You know, Steve, you're not very hard to figure. Only at times. Sometimes I know exactly what you're going to say. Most of the time. The other times—the other times, you're just a stinker."_

She keeps stealing glances at the letter that Ruby and that guy Slightly brought her today.

"_My darling Belle_."

But her name isn't Belle. She doesn't know what it is, but she's sure it's not that, and that old man in black who kept sneaking into her room isn't someone she knows or wants to know. She tried to tell Slightly that, but he pressed the letter into her hand anyway and said it was her choice whether to read it or not, but if she did, maybe it would help.

_My darling Belle,_

_Hook has had his revenge at last. In all worlds, even this one, with its dependence on the rule of law, justice demands a life for a life, and I have escaped justice for more years than anyone in this world has been alive. If you ever remember me, don't be sorry for me, Belle. I have a lot to answer for. I caused havoc and destruction in too many lives. Some of it I thought I was doing in the name of justice; all of it, I thought I had the right to do, because of what was done to me. But even after the Dark One took my soul I knew the ends would never justify my means._

_But you, Belle, have a world awaiting you, and life and love to be pursued, as you have always done, whole-heartedly, fearlessly. Go out into the world, Belle; you will find yourself there. Don't worry about the memories you can't recover. Fate is giving you a second life, blessing you with freedom from the past. No matter what you can or can't remember, you will become the woman you're meant to be if you listen to your heart. _

_But if you do remember anything about me, let it be that when I was lost in the vortex, only you had the courage to reach out your hand to me, and when I was hiding behind the mask of the monster, only you had the faith to try to love me. You are an uncoverer of the truth, a recoverer of the lost. That is power of the kind the world needs far more than the power I pursued. _

_Go out and wield your power, Belle. And know that it's not fear I'm hanging onto any more. In the end, you really did recover me. _

_Love,_

_Rumple_

She shared the letter with Archie. He just looked sad and gave it back. "I'm sure he seems creepy—before yesterday, most of us would have agreed with you on that. But he was dying when he wrote this. I think you should believe it's what he really feels, and a man who can feel like this, maybe there's more to him than we gave him credit for."

"Are you saying I should go see him in the hospital?"

"Not if you think it will upset you. You've been through enough. And there is time enough, if you change your mind: Gold's recovering nicely."

_In the end, you really did recover me._

She dozes off in Granny's soft, deep bed, the letter and the remote in her lap and Bacall's purr weaving through her dreams. "You know you don't have to act with me, Steve. You don't have to say anything, and you don't have to do anything. Not a thing. Oh, maybe just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and. . . blow."


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

**Storybrooke General Room 304, Friday, 9am**

Whale is standing over his impatient but impeccably dressed patient. "So got chilly in our hospital gown, did you? Or was it just your maidenly modesty?"

Gold tugs at the cuffs of his midnight blue silk shirt. "I'm on to your little games, Doctor. Those hospital gowns are just to make certain the patients won't sneak out without paying the bill."

Whale chuckles. "Nah, the gowns are to keep you patients too embarrassed to argue with us when we jab you with our needles."

"Regardless, no amount of intimidation on your part will get me back into one of those perverted excuses for nightwear—nor make me forget that you swiped my shoes."

Whale displays his foot, now shod in (Gold shudders) Hush Puppies. "I'll get 'em back to you. They aggravated my bunions. You got some tiny feet on you, Gold."

"Large enough for me to plant one of them in your arse," Gold mutters.

Whale ignores the remark by scanning through some lab reports on his Ipad, and he's taking his sweet time about it, too. He's not trying to decide anything or figure anything out; by biding his time, he's reminding the patient just how complicated the practice of medicine is, and by so doing he's preserving the healer mythology. Gold knows this and he taps his fingers on the bed. In the mythology of his own profession, the opposite is practiced: a good mage never lets his clients see him sweat. Interestingly, Gold has found these two mythologies adhered to in every land he's visited: those who heal with science would have the public see their work as a highly advanced skill, years in the making; but those who heal (or harm) with magic would have the public see their work as an effortless talent, bestowed by the gods upon select few.

Whichever side of the fence one stands on, Gold thinks, it's all a part of the show, and the better the show put on by the practitioner, the higher the price that may be charged.

"No trace of the poison," Whale says, and he tries to keep it out of his voice that this statement is an admission of the success of Gold's potion. "No organ damage." He casts a wicked glance at Gold. "No apparent brain damage."

Gold sniffs, taking the remark as an insult of sorts.

"We'll need to watch that wound for infection, keep it bandaged another couple of days, and then let it get some exposure to air. Your blood pressure's elevated; could just be white coat syndrome, though. People often get nervous around doctors."

This time Gold snorts.

"I hear our hospital food's not good enough for you. Just make sure whatever you sneak in is low-sodium—and liquid. No solids yet." Whale sets the Ipad aside and pulls down the skin under Gold's eyes to examine the whites. "You didn't sleep last night, did you?"

Gold wrinkles his nose. "With the noise and the odors, how can one be expected to rest here?"

Whale steps back and picks up his Ipad again. "Look, I'll share a trade secret: sleep is a powerful medication. Get some." He types some notes, then pauses. "Considering that the man who nearly murdered you is still on the loose, anybody'd be stressed out. It'd do you some good to talk to Archie."

"Archie's where he needs to be." They both know he means _helping Belle_. "If I'd run crying to a shrink every time someone made an attempt on my life, Archie would be the proud owner of a rather large estate and I'd be in the poorhouse."

Whale shrugs; he's known Gold too long to waste his breath on this argument. But he has another approach: "Hey, I'm on ER duty tonight, but usually that just means it's my turn to buy the sandwiches for the poker game we got going on in the doctors' lounge. I don't expect it to be any different tonight; the three of you seem to be mending all right."

"Our motorist friend from Pennsylvania—how soon can he be ushered out of town?"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist. We're releasing him today, but he already said he's going to stick around a few days. Says he likes the 'ambiance' of our quaint little village."

"You know, don't you, that the only reason he's still alive is that Regina's been distracted lately and he's managed to slip under her radar."

Whale rubs the back of his neck—funny how any mention of Regina tends to produce sudden neck pains in most people. "Yeah. He's lucky she hasn't turned him into a tree frog or something. David's keeping an eye on her, as best he can, since she keeps vanishing in clouds of smoke. And Emma's got constant surveillance on Cora, so we may have a day or two of peace and quiet. Anyway, as I was starting to say, if you can't sleep tonight, the game starts at 10. Bring cash."

"Only if you bring my shoes."

"Penny pinching old shyster," Whale snipes.

"Shoe stealin' old witch doctor," Gold snipes back.

Whale laughs in surprise. "Hey, considering I got Cora upstairs and you here, I guess that does make me a witch doctor." He pats Gold's shoulder. "See you tonight, Gold."

"See you tonight, Victor." Something new, now ingrained in him by a woman who insisted she saw good in him, pushes Gold to add, "Hey, Victor—thanks for the science."

Whale taps his Ipad against his left arm. "Thanks for the magic."

As soon as Whale has gone, Gold yanks his phone from under his pillow and shoots off a text message: _Bring me that copy of _Poker for Dummies_ that's in the discard box in the workroom. And a bowl of clam chowder. _This is his first invitation to a poker game, but Gold's not about to let Frankenstein know that.

He might want to be invited back again.

**Mayor's mansion, 9:15 am**

So Gold didn't sleep last night.

Regina's heels strike the kitchen tiles, making a sound like two pistols being shot off, as she loads her dishwasher. She's just been to the hospital to bring Cora a decent breakfast (eggs benedict, fresh fruit and freshly squeezed orange juice from Granny's. No mother of the Queen's is going to eat that slop the hospital calls food) and they've had a long, friendly chat—after chasing away the dwarf on guard duty and the orderly who dared to insist "Visiting hours don't start until 10 a.m."

A long, friendly, informative chat, wherein Regina learned for the first time just how her mother acquired magic. Until then, Regina had assumed, based on the tale her father told, that Rumplestiltskin's role in Cora's life had been limited to that of teacher. Now she knows it was so much more: corrupter (of course, it makes sense now! Hadn't he done to same to Regina?), abuser. . . and seducer.

Cora hid her face in her hands as she exposed the bitter truth—as though she were giving a confession, as though she had cause to feel shame! Regina had grasped her hands and pried them away to allow the tears to flow freely, and then she took her mother in her arms and assured her she had nothing to feel guilty for. "I understand now," Regina cooed, stroking her mother's hair. "I understand everything, and it's not your fault."

"It was him who came between your father and me," Cora sobs. "He used his magic on me. I couldn't fight it; you know how powerful he is. He used me and when another toy came along for him to play with, he abandoned me, left your father to pick up the pieces. Well, I was so crushed, I couldn't bear the pain, and that's when I took out my own heart. It was the only way I could live with myself. . . with what he'd done to me."

And then Regina made her promise: for every minute of shame, regret, humiliation and emptiness that he had made Cora feel, Regina will extract an hour of agony from the giggling torturer. He's weak now, exhausted, distracted by his son and Hook; this is the time to mete out justice. Regina promises her mother she will strike directly at the monster's heart—except, unlike Hook, she won't be quite so literal.

**The Charmings' apartment, 9:15 am**

Emma awakes with a start and slaps at her alarm clock, which she assumes is broken until she examines it and finds the alarm was turned off. Mary Margaret greets her at the foot of the stairs with a cup of cocoa. "I don't have time for breakfast," Emma puffs on the cocoa to cool it. "I overslept. I was sure I set my alarm."

"I turned it off." Before Emma can argue, Mary Margaret rushes on, "You really needed the rest, Emma. Think about everything you went through yesterday."

"I got one witch and one evil sorcerer in the hospital, and another witch running loose. I'm going to be fighting magic all day today."

"All the more reason for you to start the day rested."

One of these days, Emma decides, she's going to have to have a long talk with Mary Margaret about her attempts at mothering. Not that Emma doesn't appreciate the attention and the concern, but she is, after all, kinda-sorta the same age as Mary Margaret now, and besides, she's got a public image to think of: she's the sheriff.

As she grabs her jacket and runs out to her Bug, she shakes her head to clear it. Geez, this whole town is full of reunited parents and children all trying to work out their confused relationships. If she were a psychiatrist instead of a sheriff, she'd be inclined to think the curse wasn't really about revenge against Snow White: it was about Regina's mommy issues, and all these other sets of parents and kids are just living Barbie and Ken dolls that Regina's using to figure out how to handle Cora.

Thank the gods she's the sheriff and not a shrink. Fighting dragons and one-handed pirates is rough enough: Emma can't imagine having to counsel all those screwed up moms and dads. Once she and Neal (or should she start calling him "Baelfire" now?) haul Hook's behind back into Storybrooke and send him packing, Emma thinks she'll take a nice, relaxing vacation—like, a campout in a rattlesnake pit.

**Granny's, 10 am**

Slightly perches on a vacant red pleather stool. For most of Storybrooke, breakfast was over a couple of hours ago, so the restaurant contains only a few Saturday morning shoppers grabbing a cup of joe before they hit the bricks. That's just as Slightly planned. Bae's gone off to the hospital for visiting hours, Dove's catching some much-needed sleep, and Henry's rounded up some neighborhood kids to play against the Lost Boys in a game of baseball, so Slightly's got time for himself. . . time for Red.

"Oh, hi," she dimples as she emerges from the kitchen with a rack of freshly washed glasses.

"Hi yourself. Came by for another cup of Granny's coffee—and to thank you for your hospitality yesterday."

"My pleasure. You're our first tourist, you know." She slides the rack under the counter and fetches a mug, which she fills with decaf and sets in front of him. She busies herself by straightening the napkin holders and condiments on the counter, and he understands why: she'd like to chat with him, but she's not sure if it's she or the coffee he's really come for. Or more likely, additional information.

He knows what she's feeling because it's what he's feeling. Is she being friendly with him because he's a customer or. . . ? "I think she's going to go see him today," he blurts, and then he reddens and has to explain himself. "Belle, I mean. Go see Rumplestiltskin."

Red sets her chin in her hand and thinks about it. "I don't know, maybe. _Belle_ would do it—Belle would've climbed up a tree and snuck into his window last night so she could be alone with him after visiting hours. But. . . ." Red shrugs.

"Love is more than shared memories, Red," he says. "It's a jumble of other things too: chemistry, a gut-level trust, a communication between souls, and a heavy dose of alchemy performed by the Fates."

"I hope you're right, because there doesn't seem to be much hope of them reclaiming those shared memories." Red runs her finger through the ring of moisture his coffee mug has left on the counter. "You seem to know a lot about romance, for a guy."

"I've seen the power of True Love overcome the most impossible obstacles. Can I tell you another secret, Red?"

Now she brightens and leans forward to whisper, "I won't tell a soul."

He leans forward too and sets his hand on top of hers. "After I left Neverland, I wandered from world to world for several years, still a Lost Boy, even though I was full grown by then. And then I went to work for a powerful being, and these things I'm talking about, I saw happening right before my eyes, though I've yet to experience them myself, and I wasn't lost any more."

She frowns a little, perplexed. "I don't follow you."

He lowers his voice. "Bae thinks it's just a stroke of luck that the other guys and I happened to be in New York, where he could find us. But the truth is, my employer set it up that way, so that we could be here to help. You probably think that the Blue Fairy and Regina and Rumplestiltskin are the most powerful mages in the world."

She nods, confirming it. "Aren't they?"

He shakes his head. "There are those who are more powerful, and who have a keen interest in what develops here. Plans, you might say—well, _hopes_ would be a more accurate word. Little Red, there are certain broken relationships that have to be mended, certain hearts that have to be healed, in order for good to win. Because for good to truly win, it's not by destroying evil—it's by converting it."

Red is beginning to catch on. "Slightly, who sent you here?"

He raises from the stool so he can whisper in her ear, "My employer was—and is—the Goddess of Love."

**Storybrooke General Room 304, 10 am**

"How'd you sleep, Dad?" Bae's entire posture has changed overnight: he saunters into the hospital room, his eyes fixed on the patient, his smile wide and unguarded. Gold wonders what's got into him, but he's not going to risk upsetting the applecart by asking; he's just going to accept it gratefully. Bae plants himself in the guest chair, still parked near the bed from last night's visit.

Gold would love to open up too, but that's never been in his nature. Even when he was a young man, sound of limb and newly wed, he kept his thoughts to himself. The son of the town coward dare not draw undue attention to himself, so Rumplestiltskin had never confided in anyone, not even his wife. It was through a bargain with her father, not through a mutual attraction, that he won Milah's hand in marriage, and though he thought he had eventually earned her affection, he suspected he'd never earned her respect.

But oh, he wishes he could tell Bae of his journey yesterday to the Afterlife, confess his fears, and receive in return the reassurance that free will still reigns and the Dark One has a choice whether he ends in Paradise or Hell.

Through his open door he watches Mother Superior pass by, on her way to visit some patient perhaps—but she won't visit Rumplestiltskin. He burned that bridge to the ground long ago.

Gold sidesteps his son's question. "I'll be glad when I get a decent meal."

Bae winks. "Now, Dad, tell the truth: Dove's been sneaking food in, hasn't he?"

"Yeah, but—soup! That's just an appetizer. I want steak, roast beef—even a turkey sandwich would help." They chuckle a bit, then Gold grows serious. "Bae, I wanted to say thanks. For bringing me here, and for sticking around a while."

"I wanted to," Bae says, then he tries to lighten the mood. "Hey, Mr. Dove showed us your shop this morning. Was that my old kickball you've got displayed in the window?"

"It is indeed. I managed to bring a few things over from the old world."

"Would you mind if I give it to Henry?"

Gold grins. "That's the perfect home for it." Then he grows quiet. "You hanging in there, Bae? A helluva lot has happened in the past twenty-four hours."

"Yeah." Bae sighs. "Tamara will be here this afternoon, so some degree of normalcy will return. I hope."

"She gives you a sense of stability?"

"She does, Dad. She's a strong woman. Good listener. And always looks on the bright side; that's something I need."

The hole in his chest gives Gold a sudden stabbing pain, but he masks it. "I'm glad she's in your life, then. Everyone needs someone like that."

"Dad, those photos in your house—is she your normal?"

Gold drops his gaze. "When you were talking about Tamara, that could've been me talking about Belle. But I don't see an engagement in our future. I'd walk away from everything I own without a second glance if I could only change that."

"Sorry, Dad." Bae never has been good at the social niceties; he doesn't know what to say.

Gold clears his throat. "Bae, we need to talk about Henry."

"Don't worry, Dad, my running days are over. Tamara's convinced me to settle down. I have a pretty good job now: I install home security systems, make a decent living. And New York's not that far away. I'll be back a couple of times a month, and Henry can come see me during his school breaks, if it's okay with Emma."

"Well, his situation is complicated. You need to be prepared: there may be a custody battle, and to tell you the truth, I'm not sure Emma can win." He explains the circumstances of Henry's adoption, admitting that he had acted as the legal go-between.

"Wow, Dad." Bae begins to pace; it's too coincidental to take at face value. "Wow. And you had no idea?"

"None." Gold shakes his head in disbelief. "I arranged for the adoption of my own grandchild—to a woman who would just as soon kill me as look at me. And I wasn't aware of either one of those facts at the time." He then explains about the curse. "For twenty-eight years, I thought I was just an ill-tempered recluse with a bum ankle and a lot of money, and I thought Regina was just a control freak in a pencil skirt. And then Emma rode in on her little yellow Bug and changed everything just by introducing herself."

"So how did it happen? I mean, it's creepy. There are, like, 7 billion people in the world. There must be a million adoptable kids. How did one man, in one small town, happen to randomly choose the one baby in the world that he's related to?"

"And adopt that baby out to the last person in the world he would've chosen. Bae, you've got to believe me, there's no way in six hells that I would've given Henry to her, if I'd been awake at the time." Gold has trouble sustaining eye contact, but he has to try: the fragile relationship he's building with Bae depends upon their willingness to believe each other.

"It's not the first time magic has f—d things up for us," Bae grumbles. "But I dunno, if anybody but Regina had adopted Henry, Henry wouldn't have tried to find his birth mother. Emma never would have come back into his life and the curse never would have broken. And I," his tone turns bitter, "never would've known I have a son."

"Now that we know—"

"I'm going to do everything I can be a good father to him."

"And I'll do everything I can to protect him, with the law or with magic," Gold promises. "But Bae, you need to always bear in mind: Henry's no ordinary child. You could try to deny him the use of his magic, but son, magic is what he was born for, and there's a reason he was chosen to have it. We may never see that reason, but you can be sure it's there: the Fates wouldn't have gone to so much work to set this up if they didn't have a need for Henry. And Bae, if the Fates are involved, as I suspect they are, there's nothing you or I or anyone else can do to prevent Henry from fulfilling his purpose."

Bae thinks this over. "Is that true for the Dark One too, Dad? Nothing you or I or anyone else could've done to prevent you from becoming the Dark One?"

"I wish I could make things easier on both of us and say yes, but the truth is, I don't know. If my life as the Dark One had any bigger purpose, I haven't seen it yet." He lowers his head. "And if what I saw of the Afterlife is any indication, I'd have to say my being the Dark One served no one's purpose other than my own: to prevent you from being drafted, to find you again when I lost you—and to protect myself from people like Hordor."

"You talk about it like your life is over. Seems to me there are people who need you. Henry and Emma, for two, and Belle, and me."

Impulsively, Gold grasps Bae's hand. It's a display of sentiment, and perhaps sentiment is weakness, but he can't help it.

"And if Henry's going to be a game changer like you say, seems like the Fates need you too, to mentor him." Bae squirms; it's too soon in their new relationship to swim in such deep waters of conversation. He shifts the topic onto more neutral ground. "Something I've been wondering about. You said Henry's got the powers of both Light and Dark magic. I get where the Light magic came from, but you became the Dark One after I was born, so if there is a 'magic gene' I wouldn't have had it to pass on to Henry."

Gold's dark eyes twinkle. "Son, did you ever wonder where fairies come from?"

A bubble of surprised laughter bursts from Bae's chest. "If this is going to be my 'birds and the bees' talk, you're a few years too late, Dad."

"Think about it," Gold presses. "Have you ever seen a male fairy?"

"No."

"Nor has there ever been a child of a Dark One. Magic isn't genetic, Bae; it's an assignment. The Fates choose who will carry the burden. The preferred victim is usually a desperate soul, because those are the people who will seek out magic—and use it. A contented man might dabble out of curiosity, but he will not surrender himself, body and soul, to magic. Magic is meant to be used. Along with disasters and diseases and decay, magic is how the Fates make dramatic changes in the world when Nature and mankind are moving too slowly.

"Henry is an anomaly, one of a kind. Never before have the Fates mixed Light and Dark magic. My hunch is that it will never happen again. I think this particular child was chosen for this particular moment in history because this world is ready for a cataclysmic change, and the bearer of this new magic must be nurtured equally by both forces, that is, by both Emma's side of the family and yours. If Henry is to fulfill his destiny, you and I must be involved in his life, just as much as the Nolans are. The Fates chose to place this boy between these two families, the House of Good and the House of Evil, to be created by both, to be nurtured by both."

So the topic Bae thought would be relatively shallow has turned deep. "Maybe to demolish both."

"Or to repair both," Gold amends. "The decision will be Henry's."

"What a crappy fate. Why couldn't the Fates have chosen him to be a plumber or a cab driver?"

"Indeed."


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

**Archie's Office, 10 am**

"I must apologize for my presumptuousness," Archie begins as Belle removes her sweater and settles back on the couch. "I've been calling you 'Belle,' because that's how we know you, but I should have asked what you would like to be called."

She picks at a loose button on her sweater. "Everyone says my name is Belle French. My library card says 'Belle French.' My insurance card says 'Belle French.' So I know that must be my name, but I cringe whenever I hear it. Archie, that name doesn't feel right to me, any more than 'Jane Doe' does."

"Names carry power, it's said. And in this country, we believe in self-determination and fresh starts. That's why state laws make it easy for adults to change their names. You have that right to choose your own name and your own identity. You tell us who you are, and the rest of us will follow your lead. Is there a name that you feel comfortable with?"

She gnaws on her lip. "I've spent hours thinking about nothing else. I feel like if I could just remember my name, the curtain would be raised, you know? And other memories would come back."

Given the cause of her memory loss, Archie can't agree with her. No illness, injury or trauma is blocking access to her memory; her memory's been taken. It's gone. If the magic could be reversed, or if the stolen memory could be tracked down and returned to its owner, he's sure Gold would have made it happen. He can encourage her to give up and create a false identity for herself; he can encourage her to chase a false hope, wasting her time and risking severe depression when she learns the truth; or he can push her to accept the identity that others hand to her, despite her discomfort with it. Any of those options would be a lie.

"For the time being, just until you're able to tell us what you'd like to be called, if you can tolerate it, I'll continue to call you 'Belle.' I'm afraid that's what the rest of the community will do. Can you tolerate that?"

She shrugs. "I need a name, I suppose." But beads of sweat break out on her forehead and she's worked that loose button right off the sweater.

He has to lessen the pressure. He steers the conversation to something easy to give her a break. "How are you enjoying your stay at Granny's?"

"My room is great." She brightens. "It faces east, so I get the sun in the mornings and when I wake up and open my window, I can smell coffee and bacon cooking. Granny is taking good care of me, and Ruby and I are planning to go to the movies tomorrow night. She brought a bunch of stuff—clothes and books and makeup and stuff—for me. She said it was mine and came from my apartment."

"When you're ready, you and I will go to that apartment and look around. But there's no rush in moving you back there; I'd recommend you continue at Granny's for a while."

"Ruby says I had a job, before. It might be good for me to go back to it, don't you think? I need to make a living."

"You don't need to worry about that. Your expenses are being covered. I'm not sure you're ready to resume your old job—it was quite an undertaking. But I agree, it could help you to feel normal again if you had some work. Maybe a part-time volunteer position somewhere."

"I'll walk around town a bit today and see what's available. I need to feel useful. I can't just sit around watching old movies all day. I—" Suddenly her face goes blank.

He leans forward. "Belle?"

"Last night I was watching an old movie. I didn't remember it, but the movie felt _important_ to me."

"How so?"

"Well, I didn't recognize the plot or any of the lines, but—the feelings. The way the movie made me feel—I knew I'd felt those feelings when I watched that movie before. One of those feelings was—it felt like being held. You know what I mean? Like being in the arms of someone I was supposed to be in the arms of." She picks up the sweater and clutches it against her chest. "I want that back, just as much as I want my name and my job back. That letter Slightly brought to me yesterday—Archie, I'm going to go to the hospital tonight to see Mr. Gold."

"You don't have to rush," Archie assures her. "That could be very emotional; maybe you ought to wait a while."

"Emotions might be a good thing."

"Yes, but when he came to your hospital room, he frightened you. If you really feel you have to go, shall I go with you?"

"I'm not afraid."

**Storybrooke General Room 304, 11 am**

If anyone were to ask him to name his primary duty as Mr. Gold's handyman, Dove would say, "Waiting." He doesn't mind at all; patience is a quality that the curse somehow preserved when it brought Frank Dove to Storybrooke.

And so he doesn't mind at all waiting in the hallway until the visiting hour is over and Bae, Snow and Henry are chased out by the zealous orderly, who chastises them for breaking the two-visitor rule. Henry gives her his puppy eyes and chirps, "Thank you for letting me see my grampa," and she melts. "Don't forget, you can come back at 7 tonight," she encourages.

"I'm meeting David and Emma for lunch," Snow announces to Bae. "Would you like to join us?"

"Thanks. I'd like that," Bae answers, though in truth, he wouldn't: he feels uncomfortable around David. For one thing, the prince is kind of old-fashioned and, as Emma would say, "judgy" about the baby-outside-of-marriage thing. And though Snow and Emma stubbornly say, "We're family now," and Henry has taken to calling Bae "Dad" without a second thought, there's no term to define Bae's relationship to these people. Whether you're talking law or biology, they're related only tangentially. He can't call these people in-laws—and thinking of that reminds Bae of Gold's warning concerning Henry's custody. If it comes down to a court battle, Bae will have to decide whether to back Emma's petition or put forth one of his own. Snow is a sharp woman: she probably realizes that, and hence her attempt to bring Bae onto Team Emma.

Which is not to say she's not being nice for the sake of being nice. Bae will accept her proffered olive branch and do his best to win David over. After all, they may be running into each other quite often from now on.

"Good morning, Frank," Bae greets the waiting handyman, and Snow echoes the greeting.

"Good morning, Bae." There's a question in Dove's expression, but he won't ask it in front of Snow and Henry.

Bae catches on anyway. It's an odd thing, but of all the people who have come into his life in the past twenty-four hours, he feels most relaxed—least judged—by the one he isn't related to. Maybe it's just because neither he nor Dove have anything to lose from each other. "Good visit," Bae says, and Dove understands this to mean so far, the lines of communication between father and son remain open, unblocked by anger and guilt. "He's feeling better," Bae adds. "Not sleeping, though."

"I may have a few things that will help," Dove pats the two sacks he's brought along.

"Let the guys know I'll be back after lunch?" Bae asks, and Dove nods.

Although the visiting hour has ended, silent Mr. Dove slips into room 304 unnoticed. He finds his employer sitting up, staring off into space—and almost fully dressed. Only the jacket and shoes are missing. Dove's lips twitch as he fights off a smile in finding that his boss, just one day gone from his trip to death's door, appears ready to pose in the Hospital Edition of _GQ_.

Then Dove worries just a bit when Gold fails to react to his approach. Dove decides he had better plan on resuming guard duty, since Gold's senses seem a little off. "Mr. Gold?" He sets the two sacks on the foot of the bed and starts to unpack them.

The boss finally blinks and draws in a deep breath. "Mr. Dove. Ah, good, you've brought the accounts." He reaches out, aiming for the ledger that came from the larger bag, but then he sees the small sack. He sniffs. "Clam chowder?"

Dove nods.

Gold's hand changes direction and takes the Granny's bag. As he retrieves a spoon from his over-bed hospital tray, he grins wickedly, and Dove stops worrying about him. Gold tears the bag open. "A double portion," he observes.

"I thought you might be hungry."

"Good man, Mr. Dove." He sighs as the first spoonful reaches his tongue.

Dove removes from the large sack the requested poker book, a box of playing cards and an envelope. "News concerning one of your properties." He shakes a half-dozen photos from the envelope onto the blanket, then pats them into a stack and hands them to Gold. "Camelot Apartments, number 202."

Gold pauses in his appreciation of the soup. "Formerly occupied by Sidney Glass."

"The incident with the Mills women took place there."

"Damage, I presume." After another spoonful of chowder, Gold sorts through the photos and scowls—though at the same time a snort of laughter escapes. "'Capitalist pig'—that's all she could come up with for me? Regina, you need to get your nasty on. 'Crack whores'? Hardly what I would expect from a two-hundred-year-old queen." He passes the photos back. "Very well, Mr. Dove. Hire a painter and a cleaning crew—and send the invoices to Her Majesty."

"Seems the act of a desperate individual. One could almost feel sorry for her."

Gold smirks. "One _could_—but one won't."

Dove and Gold have a comfortable arrangement to their working relationship: Gold tells Dove what to do, and Dove does it quietly, effectively and efficiently. Dove never casts doubt on Gold's decisions; he questions only when he needs to know how or when, never why. But sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—Dove realizes Gold needs—not guidance, not advice, of course not; Gold is the _boss_—but a hint. A nudge to the memory. Dove would never presume to _say_ anything along those lines, nor would Gold tolerate such insolence, but sometimes a small _demonstration_ is appropriate. And that's the last object Dove has brought along: a subtle suggestion that the boss ought to allow himself to sleep. Casually, he takes hold of the wire handles on the larger bag, and that draws Gold's attention to it.

"Something else, Mr. Dove?" Gold judges by the apparent bulk of the bag, "Something large?"

Without a word Dove removes the final thing he's brought from the pink house, and as he offers it, he wins a smile from his boss. "Thank you, Mr. Dove. Very thoughtful of you."

For Dove has brought a pillow from Gold's bed. He can't know it, of course—Gold himself doesn't know it until he accepts the pillow and catches the faint, fading scent of lemon verbena—but this was Belle's pillow, the one she slept on during the too few nights they'd had together before Hook.

As soon as Gold touches the pillow, he catches the scent, and he nearly breaks. He covers his sudden vulnerability by quickly diverting his attention to the accounts ledger.

Well, he's tired; people get emotional when they're tired. But he keeps sneaking glances at that pillow.

**Granny's B & B, Room 7, noon**

Jane—or Belle, as people keep wanting to call her; and she's tired of fighting it, and why would they lie, anyway? —all right, then: _Belle_ is lying against her headboard, a pillow held tight in her arms, that letter in her lap. She's not afraid. It's the truth she wants, even if it unhinges her, but no one seems willing to give it to her. Oh, they're just being protective, she gets that, but even her shrink withholds the truth: gentle Archie, who's supposed to guide her back to health—or if not to a return to the woman she used to be, then at least to an identity she can work with. She searches her memory as far back as she can go: two weeks. In that time, only two people have dared to come close to giving her the whole truth: the freckle-faced guy that brought her the letter. . . and the writer of the letter.

She's read it a hundred times. In the first two readings she gleaned from it the man's feelings for her; in the next ninety-eight she tried her damnedest to let the letter provoke her feelings for him. So frustrating! If his words could only waken the love for him sleeping in her—or the hate; she's ready for that possibility—surely her memory would stir. But after a hundred attempts, she must admit that's not the path that will lead her back.

She will go to see him; she needs him to tell her who she was and where she is. But from this letter she realizes his need is just as strong, and her heart aches that she can't fulfill it. She doesn't love him; she doesn't know him. Maybe Archie's right and she shouldn't go see him—but not for the reason Archie thinks. _She's_ not the one who will get hurt.

She sets the pillow and the letter aside and wanders to her closet. Just in case she does go to the hospital tonight, she'll want a change of clothes. If she can't give him the words he needs to hear, at least she can give him the respect of dressing nicely for the occasion. She wonders if he had any favorites among the dozen outfits Ruby brought from her apartment. As she pushes hanger after hanger aside, she spies something that doesn't fit in with the rest: a blue and white checked shirt, a man's shirt. She takes it from the hanger and holds it against her body: she could wear it as a shirt-dress. It must be his; that's the only explanation for why Ruby had found it in Belle's closet. It must be his—

And oh, crap. Belle suddenly realizes what _that_ must mean.

She sinks on the bed. A drop of wetness falls from the sky and dots the shirt. Then another drop and a third, and she has to admit it: she's crying. She doubles over the shirt.

She knows almost nothing about herself, but what she does know is that casual sex just isn't her thing. She wouldn't sleep with a man unless she loved him. "Oh gods."

That she has his shirt proves she loved him.

She cries until her nose is so stuffed she has to breathe through her mouth. It's an ugly look, but he would find it beautiful because he would know what it means.

When the tears subside, she showers to pull herself together. Her hair dripping, she patters to the closet to select the outfit in which she will greet the man who, she prays, can awaken her. Yes, by damn, she will go to see him, and she will tell him that although she can't even remember his first name, she wants to try to come back to him, because love is too rare and too vital to be walked away from. She will fight for what they had. She reaches for a sleeveless blue lace dress.

No. She spins around and picks up the checked shirt from the bed, and as she slips it over her head and rolls up the sleeves, in the back of her mind she hears a man's chuckle. It makes her skin tingle. _A man's soft chuckle in her ear, his warm and comforting chest pressed against her back, his silk-sleeved arms sliding about her waist. _

A scent wafts from the collar of the shirt. A cologne that makes her want. Oh gods, she wants him and she doesn't even know his first name.

There's a knock on her door, a firm, insistent, but confident knock; a knock that says, Of course you will let me in. She grabs her jeans from this morning and pulls them on, then opens the door a crack. It should be Ruby: they're supposed to have lunch together. But Ruby doesn't knock: she raps a couple of times impatiently before squealing, "Open up, girl!"

Belle peers out (without her underwear, she isn't ready for company). She finds no one, but on the floor is a whicker basket of juicy red apples. How sweet! A welcome basket from Granny? A get-well gift from Archie? Some lovers' message from Mr. Gold (were apples a thing for them, the way other couples have a special song or movie)? She brings the basket inside and finds a little card tied to the handle with a red ribbon. "We're glad you're feeling better. Your friends at the Rabbit Hole." Under the message someone's drawn a long-eared rabbit emerging from a black hole. Cute. She examines the card closely for clues: who these people are or what the Rabbit Hole is, she has no idea.

With a shrug she gives up guessing. Ruby's running late and Belle's hungry, so she selects the smallest apple, just a little something to stem the tide of her appetite, and she takes a bite. . . .

**Storybrooke General, Room 304, 1pm**

Gold's body can't fight the need for sleep any more. He's still sitting up, his ledger on his lap, a pen in his hand, when his head slowly dips forward and his chin makes contact with his chest.

With a satisfied smile, Dove carefully removes the pen and the ledger. He sits back down, but the boss is bound to end up with a stiff neck if Dove leaves him like that, so as quietly and gently as he can, Dove presses on his shoulders, urging him back, and Gold's body takes the hint. With his head supported by his own pillow, Gold should be able to rest now. Dove retreats to the hallway. When a nurse comes to take Gold's blood pressure, he sends her away.

_Gold is walking down a long hallway. There's no sound, not even his footfalls, not even his breathing. On either side of the hallway is an endless run of closed doors. He stays in the middle of the hallway; he's afraid to touch those doors. But they all swing open, and on the threshold of every one of them stands Milah._

_A little boy's voice booms at him. "And Mother? Did she leave you like the knight said? You told me she was dead."_

"_She is dead," he hisses. He hurries, as fast as his bad ankle can tolerate, searching for a way out. _

_And on the threshold of every door stands Milah. A man's voice booms at him. "And Mother? Did she leave you like the knight said? You told me she was dead."_

"_She is dead, she is dead, she is dead."_

"_You told me she was dead."_

_He stops and tilts his head back to shout at the sky. "She is dead! I killed her!"_

_All the Milahs suddenly vanish. He screeches and throws his cane at the wall._


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

**Granny's Diner, 1 pm**

Because he knows they're trying to make him feel comfortable by discussing the Enchanted Forest, the one thing they have in common besides Henry, Bae lets David and Mary Margaret talk, and he pretends to nod and smile. He doesn't tell them that he's spend the past two centuries running from anything that reminds him of that place: he's gone so far as to walk out on a Halloween party that was inhabited by too many Cinderellas, and one night when some buddies were over watching horror movies and someone popped in a DVD of _Rumpelstiltskin_, he yanked the disc out and smashed it under his sneaker.

He doesn't tell them that no matter how friendly they get, he will never call the Nolans "Snow" and "Charming," nor does he care to play "Guess Who's Who" with the other diners, nor will he play "Who Owned What" in his father's shop.

And worst of all, when they start talking about going back to the old world, he can't share their enthusiasm. In fact, he falls silent, filling his mouth with Granny's meatloaf so that he doesn't have to do anything more than chew. They seem so excited and so sure that it's the right thing to do, his mood grows increasingly sour. Sure, the old world may have been fine for them: they were rulers and lived in a castle with servants and plenty of food. But some of the folks in this room didn't have it so well. Many of them, in fact, slept in cruck houses or huts. . .or the doorways of churches. Some of them were blind or lame or frail; some of them were prisoners or lepers or social pariahs; a few of them were cursed. And one of them was an angry, frightened child who lost his father to magic.

As his father would say, there's no way in six hells that Baelfire will ever go back to that hellhole. Besides, he's about to marry a woman of this world.

Except. . . what if Emma goes too, and takes Henry? Will Bae become the third father in his family to abandon a son?

He glances to his right, at Emma, who's absorbed in her French fries. She's got That Look: the too-wide eyes, the too-bright smile, and under the table, her thigh pressed against his is jiggling. She's pissed, mighty pissed; she doesn't want to go to the Enchanted Forest either. Bae relaxes: once Emma's made up her mind. . . .

Perhaps he can be the hero, though. He will talk to his father: perhaps there's a way that the Nolans can travel back and forth, at least for Thanksgiving dinners. Kids need their grandparents too—

And then Bae freezes in mid-chew. What if Rumple wants to go back?

His phone rings with _her_ ring tone. The cavalry! He excuses himself and takes the call: "Where are you, Tamara?"

"Turn around."

She's standing right behind their booth, flashing her beautiful smile. He apologizes to Emma: he has to make her move so that he can get out of the booth. He throws his arms about Tamara's waist and kisses her (chastely, because they are being watched by a restaurant full of strangers) and then introduces her, using the Storybrooke names. He doesn't really have to classify his relationship with the newcomer: the three Charmings can tell by his body language what she means to him.

David, ever the knight, stands and shakes hands with Tamara; Mary Margaret greets her sweetly and invites her to join them for dessert. Tamara explains that she's just now arrived and wishes to wash up first after her long drive: she asks for a rain check, and Mary Margaret says, "Of course. Any time."

Bae's kind of slow when it comes to social situations; considering his upbringing, that's to be expected. But he does catch on quickly when taught, and Tamara's been teaching him the signals. He understands that what she's really saying is _I'd like to be alone with my man_, so he makes it happen for her. He excuses himself and Tamara, promising a later occasion; he thanks the Nolans and Emma for the lunch; and he grabs for the check, but David beats him to it. Bae reddens (David may be a wealthy prince Back There, but here he's an hourly employee at an animal shelter, and Bae's pretty sure his own income is about double David's), thanks David and says the next time will be his treat.

Bae gets Tamara settled in Room 8 at the B & B. "You'll love your next-door neighbor," Granny says. "She's a sweet girl named Belle, who's been through an unfortunate accident. She went out a little while ago, but I'm sure you'll run into her soon. After all, it's a small town."

With a deep sigh, Bae sets the luggage Tamara has brought—clothes for him as well as her—onto chairs, then before she can remove her coat, he gives her a fiance's greeting that's capped off by a long, deep kiss. "So glad you're here," he chuckles when he finally releases her.

"Has it been difficult, with your father?"

He scratches at his chin. Better sooner than later, he's going to have to sit her down—on his lap, perhaps—and tell her the whole truth about his father, about himself, about all these people she just met. . . .Yeah, soon, before she sees or hears something upsetting. He has no idea how he'll do this, though. His father has a way with words; should Bae get him in on this conversation? Would that overwhelm her? But if Bae tells her in private and she doesn't believe him—she's such a realist; she doesn't even read fiction—he's going to have to ask Dad to, well, conjure something to prove the point.

Bae has yet to see Rumple perform magic in this land. Oh gods, what if he turns into the Dark One when he does it?

"No, it's been better than I expected," Bae says. Crap, it would be so much easier just to pounce on Tamara and show her how much he's missed her, but he'd better do the responsible thing, one thing at a time. He'll start with the easiest one, and if her love for him and her confidence in herself are strong enough and she doesn't dump him, they'll move on to the really rough stuff. "Uhm, babe, I need to tell you something about Emma. . . ."

**Granny's Diner 1:10 pm**

"I think that went well, don't you?" Snow comments brightly, and her husband agrees. "He's a nice young man," David remarks.

Emma won't disillusion them by pointing out that Neal is about 230 years old: it's not that she's protecting them (considering where they come from, the Charmings are well aware of strange phenomena like that) but rather that she just had a tasty lunch and doesn't want to lose it by reminding herself she slept with a man more than 10 times her age—and Rumplestiltskin's son, nonetheless. (If Neal is 230, how old must his father be? And does—did—Belle know when they first hooked up?)

Snow finds an opening for a delicate subject she and David wish to breech. "Installing home security systems in New York. I'm sure that's a good living." She gives David a nudge with her elbow.

David takes the cue. "Uh, yeah, with all the crime going on there. Robberies, drug deals, murder. Security would be a good line of work."

"This world is just filled with violence. Every night we hear about it on the news. Violence and pollution and corruption and—" she nudges David again.

"And war and starvation and disease."

Emma raises an eyebrow. "You two are up to something."

Snow places a hand on Emma's. "This is not our home, Emma. It never can be. We weren't meant to be here."

"We were ripped from our home and thrown down here by an evil queen's curse," David adds.

Now Snow places her other hand on David's, forming a family link. "This is not the world we want for ourselves and for you and Henry."

"Oooh no, I see what you're up to and the answer is no, no and no to infinity. I'm not going back there. You think this world's got problems. Well, let me remind you, Mom and Dad, what you left behind: ogres, black magic, tyrannical kings who guillotine their adopted sons, plagues, war, starvation, unsanitized water, unpasturized milk, no schools, no hospitals, no paved roads, no cars, no TV or phones, no—"

"We can change all that," David says, and his face shines with the prospect. "We'll make a world that's the best of both. It's our land; it's there for us to shape into a world that's prosperous and safe and peaceful."

Snow squeezes their hands with excitement. "We'll eliminate evil once and for all."

"What, you're going to mandate kindness and generosity?" Emma sniffs. "Dream on."

"Perhaps I overstated, but you can see how much this means, not just to your father and me, but to all the people who've been trapped here by Regina's curse. No, of course there will always be wrongdoing, but pure evil, of the kind Regina and Cora practice—we can drive it out."

"The good people here want to go back, and they need leaders to help them build again," David says. "Destiny chose us, once upon a time; I think it's calling us again. And think: when we've finished the rebuilding, just imagine the world we'll leave to Henry. Your son, Emma, is the grandson of a _queen_. He needs to be given the chance to fulfill his destiny."

"How do you know that's what he'll want? What if he wants to be a baseball player or a teacher or a sheriff or an animal shelter worker?" Emma pulls her hand away. "He has to have the right to decide for himself. Here, he'll get that. He'll go out into the world, travel, go to college, meet people, experiment, find himself."

"He can do that in the Enchanted Forest. We'll build schools, Emma, every bit as good the ones here. You can be sure of that. I wouldn't have anything less for my people."

"And there, he'll be a prince, and someday, a king."

"And now there's Neal to consider. I can guarantee you, he's not gonna want to go back and Henry's not going to want to be separated from him."

"We thought about that," Snow says. "Neal's also not going to want to be separated from his father." She glances at David, whose expression darkens, but she continues anyway. "We can get Rumplestiltskin to sign a contract agreeing to give up Dark magic and in return, we'll give him a seat on the governing council."

Emma snorts. "Why should he go for that, when he's got all the money and power he could want right here, plus his magic?"

"Because it will mean keeping his family intact," Snow says.

"And," David adds, "because there won't be anyone left here. Even an anti-social like Rumplestiltskin needs people now and then."

Emma throws her hands in the air. "I suppose next you'll be taking Regina back, and the trouble will start all over again."

"Regina's not coming back," Snow says firmly. "Unless it's as a prisoner."

"A lifer, in Rumplestiltskin's cell," David amends.

"Geez." Emma stands. "Look, my lunch hour's over. I got to get back to the real world. I'll. . . talk to you about this later. See you at home tonight."

Snow smiles at her husband. "Actually, no, you won't. Now that things have quieted down a bit, your father and I would like a little 'us' time."

"It's been over a month since the curse lifted. A short second honeymoon."

"But you can't go across the town line," Emma objects.

"We know, but we thought we'd spend a couple of nights in the inn."

Emma nods. Truthfully, it will be a bit of a break for all of them. She'll have some uninterrupted mom time with Henry and they can make tacos to their tummies' content. "Have fun, then. See you in a few days."

**Mayor's mansion, 1:10 pm**

Regina sits in her study, her phone lying on the mahogany desk (bought in the first year of the curse, an overpriced antique from Gold's shop, of course), her chin resting on her arms. She flicks at the screen idly, scrolling through her phone book. Henry's gone; Cora's in the hospital; even Regina's cleaning woman has the day off. She doesn't even have Rumplestiltskin to go play with.

She's a queen, but right now, a queen of nobody.

Snow White is a sneak thief who's stolen Regina's happy ending and Rumplestiltskin's a charlatan who created a worthless curse. Whatever possessed Regina to bring them along to this new land? She should have left them behind. She could have brought David and Belle and left Snow and Rumple behind to pine and wither away, forever separated from their True Loves. Hell, she could have paired David with Belle and sent photos of the happy couple back to the Enchanted Forest to be printed into posters and plastered all over the land so that Snow and Rumple couldn't turn a corner without. . . .

Yeah. Could've, would've, should've, but didn't.

**Granny's B & B, Lobby, 1:10pm**

"Hey, girl!" Ruby calls out a cheery greeting as Belle rushes past. "I'm sorry to be so late; it's been a madhouse around here. We just had our third registration—Belle? Where you goin', Belle? We were gonna have lunch—"

But the screen door bangs and Belle's on the street without so much as a wave goodbye. Ruby thrusts her hands onto her hips. _Belle_ would never be so rude, nor would "Jane Doe" brush aside the only Storybrooker who was brave enough and patient enough to befriend a woman who's both Gold's sweetheart and an amnesia patient. Ruby huffs, but her annoyance will subside as soon as she's had lunch. . . and time to remember how Belle had stood beside her when she needed it during Wolfstime. No, Ruby won't let a little quarrel (even though she has no idea what Belle's mad about) stand in the way of what, just a few days ago, was developing into a solid friendship.

She will, however, keep an eye on this odd behavior of Belle's. . . whenever she has a chance to pull away from all these new customers.

**Granny's B & B, Room 4, 1:30 pm**

"And you're sure she doesn't want anything from you?" Tamara's arms are crossed, but at least she's making eye contact with him, so Neal knows he's on relatively safe ground.

"Positive. Twelve years and she never once tried to contact me. I'm not sure she's okay with me even being here in town, but she tolerates it because Henry wants to get to know me." Bae is sitting at the head of the bed; Tamara, when he first introduced the subject of this conversation, moved to the foot of the bed. But at least they're sharing a piece of furniture; she hasn't pushed him away.

"What about child support?"

"I haven't discussed that with her yet. I've been kind of preoccupied, because of my dad." Bae shrugs. "I'm going to want to pay something."

"You should. It's the right thing to do."

He grins at her. "That's one of the things I love about you." Tamara's a strong woman, an ethical woman—kind of like what he used to fantasize his mother to have been, though when he got older he had his doubts. If Milah had been half the woman Tam is, Rumplestiltskin would surely have talked about her, tried to hold onto his memory of her, but instead, he had refused Bae's requests for stories about her.

It helps, perhaps, that she's holding a photo of Henry, a school picture that Henry gave Bae yesterday. How could anyone resist such a cute kid? "She should have told you she was pregnant. Even if she was in jail, she should have given you a say in the decision to adopt him out."

"There were extenuating circumstances." He told her, early in their relationship, about his criminal background. "You know. I wasn't in a position to raise a kid myself."

"Well, it is what it is," she sighs. Unwed pregnancy is, sadly, a fact of modern life, and although Tam is worried about the tangled custody mess, she's relieved that Emma doesn't seem to want anything from Neal. Whatever relationship develops between Henry and Neal will be unforced, as far as Emma and her parents are concerned. "I'd like to meet him."

"I was hoping you'd say that. Emma's on duty tomorrow, so Henry can spend the day with us." He inches closer to her. "And tonight, we'll have a nice quiet dinner, just the two of us, and after that I'd like to take you with me to the hospital."

She smiles. "I'll be happy to meet your father, Neal. I'm curious to see what you'll look like in twenty years."

Bae moves back to his original position. It's too soon to get cuddly: his explanations have just begun, as her comment reminds him. How will she react when she learns that Neal is more than two centuries old? He sighs. "Uhm, babe, there's more I have to tell you. Lots more, I'm afraid. Buckle your seat belt; it's going to be a bumpy ride."

**Storybrooke General Room 304, 2 pm**

"_Nine," the adult Bae hisses into Gold's face. Bae has him by the Armani collar and is shaking him. "And that's just the ones I know about. I'm sure you've killed ten times that. Twenty times that!"_

"_No," Gold tries to protest, but his voice is too weak._

"_Who's next, Papa?" Sarcasm drips from the last word. _

"_No! Nobody! I'm not that any more. I don't hurt people—"_

"_Oh don't you?" And Bae's voice takes on a high, nasal pitch. "You beat Moe French to a bloody pulp. You beat Hook to a bloody pulp. Who's next? Every single person in this town is here because of your doing, your curse. Who's next? Who will you kill next, dearie? Archie? Whale? David? Belle? Me?"_

"_No. I love you—" Gold pleads, peering into his son's face. His son's green, scaly face and gold-bullion eyes and rotten teeth. _

"_Henry." Bae releases him, tossing him back, and he loses his balance and falls as Bae walks away. "It will be Henry next."_


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

**Granny's B & B, Room 8, 2 pm**

"Have you been smoking again?" Tamara demands. "You told me you'd given up drugs." She'd turned her back to him. He knows the routine: a lecture will follow, no matter how hard he argues against the accusation, and only when he pleads guilty (whether he is or not) and promises to mend his ways will she allow him to look her in the eyes again. She will forgive him and wisely, she will never bring the transgression up again; that's one of the things he loves about her. She fights clean. Though, come to think about it, he wonders if she fights fair: he's never won an argument yet. She's like that with other people, too: if she can't charm them (and most of the time she can) she'll argue them into the ground.

"A little weed now and then hardly counts as 'drugs,'" Bae mutters, then instantly regrets going there. Before she pries open that can of worms, he switches the subject. "Tam, babe, you've got to believe me. I mean, I could've just waited until you saw it for yourself, let you freak out and then you'd have been ready to believe me, but I thought I'd be a gentleman and prepare you for it."

She flashes her beautiful teeth. "You're telling me this town is full of"—she waves her hands in the air—"tooth fairies and elves and—next you'll be claiming the mayor is Santa Claus and the city council is his eight tiny reindeer!"

He has to chuckle at that, though she wasn't trying to be funny and his laugh only provokes her. He forces his mouth into a straight line. "No, actually, the mayor is an evil witch. I don't know any of the city council, but I'm pretty sure Santa and the Tooth Fairy don't live here."

"Why are you telling me this? Surely you can't think this is funny. Punk your sophomoric drinking buddies all you want, but I'm your fiancée, Neal. I deserve your respect."

"You do, you absolutely do, and that's why I'm telling you all this." He runs his hands through his hair. "Because I love you and I want to be completely honest with you. I guess you could say I should have told you when we first met, but you'd have thought I was an escapee from the loony bin and you wouldn't have wanted anything to do with me."

"That's right, and I'm having serious doubts about it now."

"Please." He walks around to the foot of the bed and kneels at her knees, trying to compel her to look at him. She doesn't. "I'll prove it to you tonight; it's easy enough done. But I wish you would take me on faith. I mean, what kind of marriage are we going to have if you don't believe what I tell you?"

"I'm trying, Neal," she seems to be struggling between tears and anger. "I'm really trying." She sucks in a deep breath. "Okay. Let's start from the beginning."

His joints ache—he is, after all, more than 200 years old—he'll have to save that story, and the magic bean and Neverland and the Dark One for another hour. One page at a time, that's all he dare attempt. He stands to stretch and pulls up a rocking chair so he can hold her hand as he starts from the beginning.

"The town we have come to, it's a very unusual place. It sprang up wholesale—everything you see, all the buildings and the streets and the stoplights and everything—out of nothing, all at once, about thirty years ago. It was created by magic, and the people who live here were brought here by magic. There are five people in this town who have magic, and I'm connected, one way or another, to all of them."

**Storybrooke General Room 304, 4pm**

"Mr. Gold?" A hand gives his arm a little shake. "Mr. Gold?" His eyes fly open and he's staring sightlessly into green eyes—no, he realizes after he blinks, not Milah's. These eyes have never ridiculed or mocked.

He draws in a breath. His throat is dry; he sits up and takes a sip of water to get his voice to work. "Ah, Ms. Nolan." Snow, David and Emma have gathered around his bed—and then he sees the small figure standing just behind Snow and he scowls. He frosts his tone: "And you've brought Mother Superior with you. Have I taken a turn for the worse?"

"Sorry to disturb your sleep," Snow apologizes. "We knocked but you didn't hear us."

"We've got a problem we need some expert advice about."

Gold smiles faintly. "I presume I'm the expert? I can never resist your flattery, Sheriff Swan."

"It's Cora. She's going to live." The sheriff folds her arms as if this thought annoys her greatly.

"Yes, I believe you shared that prognosis with me yesterday. Or was it the day before?" He frowns, a little worried that his mind is still hazy.

"She's improving by leaps and bounds, health-wise, but getting her heart back hasn't improved her morals any. Instead of being an emotionless witch intent on power and destruction, she's like a manic-depressive rage-aholic witch intent on power and destruction."

"It should probably be expected, considering she had no heart for two hundred years. I've never known anyone to go so long without a heart, but my guess is, she will eventually adjust."

"Yeah, well, in the meantime, we've got to bring her to justice," David says. "But since you and Regina stole all the fairy diamonds, you're going to have to come up with some other idea for keeping Cora locked up."

"_I _have to?" Gold's hackles rise at the challenge. "And when, pray tell, was I elected sheriff?"

Emma and Snow exchange a roll of the eyes. These two so-called grown men seem determined to spar their way through this world just as they did the last. It's such a waste of time: two little boys pushing and shoving, each attempting to prove himself king of the hill.

"Consultant," Snow corrects. "A volunteer consultant."

"'Volunteer' as in 'free of charge,'" David amends. "I'm tired of your games. We're not making any more deals. You'll participate because it's in your own interests."

Snow explains, "We need your advice. Please. As long as Cora's loose, we're all in danger."

"Including your son and grandson," Mother Superior reminds him.

Gold peers past Snow to the nun. "And you? Your magic has returned, hasn't it?"

Mother Superior seems both angered and embarrassed. "It has, but you know as well as I do, I need that fairy dust to cast a spell strong enough to hold Cora."

"Or me," Gold bites.

Mother Superior's head rises; she understands his reluctance now. "I assure you, Rumplestiltskin, we have no intention of attempting to imprison you."

"I have a non-interference agreement with you, remember?" David says. "I never go back on my deals."

"Very well." Gold has an understandable dread of prisons, especially those of the prince's design, but as the prince is a hero, his word is his bond. "Two options remain. That is, if we were in the old world, we would have these two options. I can't be certain if either will work here, since neither has been tested. Both, let me emphasize, are temporary fixes. The first will buy you a few weeks perhaps. Paint the bars of the cell with squid ink. Repeated applications will be necessary, as the power of the ink dissipates when exposed to air."

"You have more?" Snow asks anxiously. "I'm afraid the vial you told me about is all gone."

"I have a small quantity. Perhaps it can be produced synthetically. I shall release the ink I have to a chemist for analysis."

"That will take time," David objects. "Time we don't have. She gets out of the hospital on Monday."

"The other option will buy you more time, but never forever: banishment to a land without magic."

The four standing before him exchange a puzzled look.

"Yes, I know about the bean field you've been hiding," Gold says impatiently. "Just as you"—he glances at Mother Superior—"can detect the expenditure of dark magic, so can I detect the expenditure of fairy magic." He leans forward in warning. "And you need to know that what I can detect, Regina can detect."

"I'm beginning to have second thoughts about stopping that wraith," the sheriff mutters.

Snow chastises her, "Emma! No one deserves a fate like that."

"Well," Emma says defensively, "our lives would be a whole lot simpler. No Regina means no Cora and no Hook."

"Banishment is a just punishment," Mother Superior speculates. "A merciful punishment, considering all Cora's done."

"In a land without magic, she couldn't hurt anyone again," Snow muses.

"Don't underestimate her, my dear," Gold cautions. "But with temptations removed, with the ability to commit mass destruction removed, without position or wealth, Cora would have to depend upon others to survive. I don't doubt that she would lie and manipulate her way back into some position of strength, but it's unlikely she would rise far." He realizes he is also exposing his own vulnerability: what can stop Cora can also stop Rumplestiltskin. He narrows his eyes at David. "Don't forget our deal, prince."

"But the beans aren't ready," Snow points out. "They won't mature for another two months, Anton says."

"Their maturation can be sped up." He plucks an unopened bud from a get-well bouquet on his nightstand, and he passes his glowing hand over it. When he returns the bud to the vase, it's in full bloom.

The visitors fall silent for several moments. Finally Snow, the least convinced of them, speaks. "We should send Regina too."

Four mouths drop open.

"Well." Snow sounds just like her daughter as she goes on the defensive. "Families shouldn't be separated. And Cora and Regina can learn to depend on each other."

"Be aware, my dears, the combination is much more powerful than the sum of its parts. There are only two ways your blood feud with Regina can end: one of you dies or both of you die." Gold knows David has the stomach for the fight that must eventually come, but Snow is years away from ready. It's to her he addresses his words: "When you are ready to discuss elimination, not removal, we'll talk again."

"I won't kill her, if that's what you're saying," Snow insists, as he knew she would.

"Monday morning, then," Gold agrees. "I shall meet you at the bean field."

**Storybrooke General Room 666, 4:15 pm**

Regina is raging, and when she shows her mother why, Cora rages too. Through a handheld mirror, Regina shows Cora a view of Rumplestiltskin's hospital room and the little confab that's taking place there. The view extremely limited: only David's shoulder and Snow's forearm are visible, due to the tiny size of the mirror that's attached to a ribbon on one of the get-well bouquets on Rumple's nightstand. But the sound comes through crystal-clear, and Cora recognizes every voice.

"They think they can get rid of us," Regina fumes. Cora shushes her to listen to the rest of the meeting in Room 304. When Rumple pronounces the day of the sentence in so nonchalant a tone ("Monday morning, then," Regina repeats, mocking him), Cora throws the mirror across the room and shatters it.

"You should have listened to me, Regina, when I told you to destroy them. We had them all standing there beneath us; we could have eliminated the entire lot in one stroke, and then we could have taken Henry." Cora reminds her. "Perhaps now you'll follow my guidance."

Regina pretends to ignore the barb. After all, now that she and Cora have been cast as pariahs, each woman is all the companion that the other has. They will have to get along, for neither can bear to be completely alone. "We're taking Henry and getting out of here," she decides.

"My magic has yet to return. I require another day of rest, but that leaves us plenty of time to steal their plan out from under them." Cora drums her fingers as she thinks. "You will find out where this bean field is."

"Rumple practically handed it to us. Wherever there's been an expenditure of fairy magic, he said. I'll harvest a supply of beans for us and destroy the rest."

"Sunday morning, then," Cora decides. "And we shall find a world for you, my darling, to reign."

**Rabbit Hole, 6 pm**

Emma and Mitch the bouncer meet them at the back door of the tavern. "Sorry to interrupt. . . whatever you were doing," she apologizes.

"Just supper," Ruby brushes the apology off, but it's obvious from the way she and Slightly are dressed that the supper had some significance to it, before Emma's phone call interrupted it. So she adds, "At La Tandoor," and that clarifies the situation: Emma now understands she's interrupted a date.

"It's okay. We got doggie bags," Slightly says. "Is she hurt?"

"Almost broke her fool neck," Mitch growls. "Climbed up on the bar and started dancing, yelling something about 'Coyote Ugly.' Slipped on a wet patch and fell. I grabbed her and locked her into the boss' office. She was raisin' cain there too, pounding on the door and knocking stuff over."

"Anything she's broken will be paid for," Ruby assures the bouncer. "Mr. Gold will—"

"That's just it. We'd rather not involve him," Mitch interrupts. "He doesn't think too highly of us."

"Let me guess: he owns the building," Ruby muses.

"No, actually, it's one of the few he doesn't own. But he does own the houses and apartments that our wait staff and bartenders live in. Anyway, I stopped her before she could do too much damage."

"I don't want to have to take her in," Emma says. "It's _Belle_. After all she's been through, she deserves a break. . . . Besides, Gold would hit the roof. We've had all the drama we can handle for now."

"No, jail's the wrong place for her," Slightly says. "She's not to blame."

"I've just never seen her act this way." Mitch rubs his neck. "I don't know her real well but my wife and I were helping out with restoring the library before her accident. She always seemed like such a sweet, quiet kid."

"She is," Emma says between her teeth. "And she will be again. She's not herself right now, and you're right, Slightly, it's not her fault. That's why I called you, Ruby. To see if you'd take her home to sober up."

"Of course." Ruby glances apologetically at Slightly, who shrugs.

"No problem," he says. "We'll keep watch on her till she falls asleep, and then maybe we can have our dinner, watch a little TV? The movie channel's been running a Bogie and Bacall fest this week."

Ruby smiles in relief and links her arm in his. "Let's go get her, then."

The bouncer leads them in. Even though it's a Friday evening, it's still too early for a crowd, so the nine or ten customers in the bar are all regulars who come by most nights for a few drinks after work. This is the highlight of their day: they have no families, no church, no volunteer work, no hobbies and in some cases, no jobs. As they pass through, Ruby recognizes some of them from the old world, and she thinks that Regina must have hated these people even more than she hated Snow, to have given them such a small life in the new world.

In a few moments she has reason to wonder if Belle is one of Regina's worst hated.

Mitch unlocks the office door. Belle's lying belly-down on the desk, never mind the papers and pens strewn under her. Her already too-short skirt has ridden up, exposing a thong. She's swinging her legs as she croons into a computer mouse and pounds on the keyboard as if it were a piano.

"Good grief," Emma grunts. She grabs Belle's arm and pulls. "Come on, Belle, on your feet. You're going home with Ruby."

Belle rolls over onto her back. One of her stilettos goes flying as she kicks her legs in the air and the heel strikes Mitch in the chest. He catches it, grabs her ankle and sticks it onto her foot.

"Get up, Belle!" Emma is losing patience. Slightly comes around to the other side of the desk and between the two of them, they push Belle onto her feet.

"Who's Belle?" She croons a few more lyrics. "'Why do you people keep calling me Belle? Leggo o' me," she leans into Slightly. "Unless you're gonna buy me a drink first."

Slightly pushes her upright. "If you're not Belle, who are you?"

She runs her hand down his chest. "You're kind of cute. Buy me a drink and I'll tell you."

Emma and Slightly half-carry her to the squad car. The B & B is only a few blocks away, but Emma's not sure that in those heels and that condition Belle can walk the distance. They get her into the back of the car, then Ruby and Slightly climb in on either side of her, lest she take the notion to climb back out again. "Who are you?" Belle peers at Ruby. "I seen you somewhere."

Ruby's had a little experience—all of it unpleasant—dealing with drunks, both in the diner and in her spotty dating history. She will humor Belle to keep her under control, and she'll watch for indications that Belle's about to hurl. "My name is Ruby Lucas. You live in the inn that I run."

"No, I live in a 'partment on First Street." She points. "Over that way."

"Well, you're going to stay with me tonight. All right, Belle?"

"Not Belle. Name's Lacey. Like my bra." Belle pulls her blouse up to reveal her pink bra. "See? Lacey. L-A-C-Y." She frowns and lowers her blouse. "There's suppose' to be a 'e' in there somewhere."

"I'm sorry, Slightly," Ruby sounds regretful but resigned. Finally, a decent guy, and she's losing whatever chance she may have had with him.

He gives Belle a little shove to force her off his lap, which she seems to have decided would be more comfortable than the middle seat. "There's time yet, Red," he answers quietly. "After we've arrested Hook, I'll be back."

Ruby smiles and settles back into the car seat.

**Storybrooke General, Room 304, 6 pm**

One hour until Bae.

Gold has a decision to make within the next hour—so he turns on the television and flips through the channels as he enjoys the chicken noodle soup Dove brought him for supper. He finds the classic movie channel; he'd dearly love a Western right now, preferably a Jimmy Stewart or Henry Fonda, but he'll settle for a John Wayne. Instead, it's _Dark Passage, _tonight's entry in a Bogie and Bacall fest. It's the last thing he needs, a movie to remind him of Belle. _Whenever she was in a playful mood, she'd call him Steve, and he'd call her Slim, nicknames that the characters of _To Have and Have Not_ called each other. And when they were in a public place and she wanted to get him alone, she'd whistle, a reference to a line from the movie: "put your lips together and blow."_

Gods, he misses his Slim.

"I thought I had a good life here," Bacall's character is saying, "but your going away doesn't make it seem good any more. I've sort of joined your team and... and I don't look forward to being without you."

Bogie's character answers, "When I leave here, you're off my team, and lucky to be. Nah, I've got the Indian sign on me. It seems I can't win."

Yeah. Ditto. Belle should've never joined Team Rumple.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

**Mayor's mansion, 6 pm**

With a flick of her wrist, Regina uses her magic to open the front door of her home. They may have taken her title and her job from her, but they have yet to make a move to take this house; she has made certain they never will, erecting powerful wards that will defend her house, whatever they try to do to it.

On Regina's arm hangs her gardening basket, and in that basket is—she chuckles just thinking about it—something more valuable than all the antiques in Gold's shop. Come to think of it, probably more valuable than all of Gold's assets put together. For in this basket are the magic beans that will take her, Henry and Cora to a new life, leaving everyone else far behind—and bitterly disappointed that their plans to return to the Enchanted Forest have been permanently thwarted.

In Regina's basket lies something more precious than gold: hope.

She opens her safe (hidden where no one would think to look: behind the refrigerator) and removes its contents: stocks and bonds, a pile of ready cash, a sack of gold coins, some jewelry and Henry's adoption papers. She locks the basket away instead. Most of these items which she considered so important that she had to keep them hidden will probably be left behind. Probably, only the coins and the jewelry will have any use in the new world. She worked hard to amass the wealth that the contents of her safe represent, but she'll walk away from it without regret, because she has _true_ wealth that will transfer over to the new land, a fortune that no one can rob from her: her magic. And she has her strength, her cleverness, her beauty, and the love of her mother and her son.

She shakes her head, driving out negative thoughts. Yes, damn it, he's still her son and he still loves her, just as much as he did when he spoke his second word, "Mama" (the first word had no meaning because it was "Dada" and Henry had no Dada). He needs her just as much as he did when, at age nine, he had to have his tonsils out and she slept on the hospital floor so that if he awoke in the night he wouldn't be alone. He's hers in every way that matters, and the Charmings and the Golds can take their biological connection to him and shove it up their tight asses because she's his Mommy.

When the basket is safely locked away, she scoops up the safe's now exiled contents and dumps all but the coins and the jewels into a desk drawer. From her hall closet she takes two suitcases—something hard to come by in Storybrooke, since no one can leave town—and she zips the coins and jewels into one. The other suitcase she carries upstairs to Henry's room. Although with her magic she could easily produce anything Henry needs in the new world, she believes he will be more comfortable adjusting to his new life if he has some of his favorite things from the old life.

And unlike Emma or Snow or David, Regina knows what those things are: she can sort through an entire closet of toys and books and pick out which ones he loves, which ones he never cared about.

She's excited now. There's nothing and no one here she will miss. She can't wait to start her new life.

**Granny's B & B, Room 7, 6:15 pm**

Ruby has tucked Belle into bed. As she closes the door behind her, she bites her lip. "This isn't like her. Honest; she never drinks anything stronger than tea."

Slightly slips a comforting arm around her shoulders. "I believe you. I think we should let Archie know. . . and Gold."

"Oh, I don't know. . . ." she objects. "Archie, yeah, but. . . you haven't seen Gold's temper in action. He's likely to leap out of his hospital bed and come roarin' down the street in his hospital gown. He'll smash every glass and bottle in that bar to smithereens."

Slightly snickers at image. "But he's the closest she has to family, right?"

Red shrugs. "She has a father but—"

"Let me guess: it's complicated. Like every other relationship in this town." He draws her attention to the take-out bag in his other hand. "How about if, for tonight, we make it simple: finish our dinner, watch a little TV."

Red sighs in relief. "I'd like that. I have an apartment on the third floor, with a kitchenette. I'll pop our dinners in the oven to warm. We have a video library in the lobby, if you'd like to go down and pick out a movie?"

He passes the bag to her. "Sounds like a plan. Meet you upstairs in a few."

"Room A."

He trots down the stairs, finds the DVD library and grabs four movies he likes, so that Red can make the final selection. His stomach is growling as he trots back up the stairs—until, on the landing of the second floor, he spies something disturbing. With an inward groan he realizes his simple evening has just gotten very complicated. He runs upstairs for a moment to explain to Red why their date will have to wait.

**Storybrooke General Room 304, 6:50 pm**

The banishment really won't resolve anything. It's not a vision that tells him that; it's just something he's learned over the centuries. You can never escape your fate, no matter how far and fast you run, and Regina is Snow's fate (and vice versa). The banishment will separate them for a time, but Fate will find an excuse to bring them back together—all of them. Even those who choose to remain behind when the prince leads his followers back to the old world, they will somehow be brought along, or the prince's plans will fall through and no one will return to the Enchanted Forest. It will be this way because it has to be this way: these people must keep fighting and fighting each other until Good has destroyed Evil or vice versa. . . . until one side or the other is undone.

Rumplestiltskin is included in that circle. When others talk about going back, or anything else to do with the future, he disengages. The Fates are undefeatable. The best you can hope for is that while the Fates are moving you around their chessboard, you can achieve a few goals of your own.

Gold glances at his phone: the visiting hours are approaching. Tonight he will tell Bae what happened to Milah. If, after that, Bae walks out, never to return, so be it; Gold will not try to manipulate him. If this reunion is to hold, it must be by the will of both men. It's a practical decision: Hook is out there somewhere, and when the pirate learns that the Crocodile is still alive, he may strike next at Bae. Telling the truth is also an act of love. If it turns out to be the last act of love that Bae accepts from his father, so be it.

It will be the bravest thing Rumple has ever done, more difficult even than finding Bae. He wishes Belle were here to shore him up. If this is the end, at least Rumple has accomplished the most important of his goals: Bae will leave knowing his father has always loved him.

"Hey, Dad, how you feelin'?"

Despite what he's about to do, Gold grins; he'll never grow tired of Bae's voice. But his grin freezes, for Bae's not alone: there's a young woman on his arm. He can see in her eyes she's lovely and intelligent and caring—

Just not caring about Bae.

"This is Tamara, my fiancée. Tam, this is my dad, Rumplestiltskin."

Oh. So Bae's told her, then. He wonders just how much. . . and whether that was a good idea. Bae is beaming as Tamara approaches the hospital bed and holds her hand out for Gold to shake. Tamara is beaming too.

When he touches her hand, he knows she's not who she claims to be. Underneath her perfume he detects another scent, the odor of her blood: she's human, yes, but her blood is tinged with an ancient smell of treacle—the scent of fairy blood. But that scent isn't pure either: mixed with it is the scent of sulfur—the scent of the blood of all who practice the dark arts. Her heritage, then, is definitely of one of the old worlds; her lineage, a bizarre blend of human, fairy and sorcerer. It befuddles him: fairies do not reproduce, and even if they did, they certainly wouldn't choose a human or sorcerer as a mate. Not willingly, anyway. And sorcerers rarely wed, for a human has little to offer that the sorcerer couldn't obtain for himself. Cora had been one of the exceptions, but then, she had become a sorcerer after she had already determined to marry Prince Henry.

For a sorcerer to marry for love—to even experience love—was even rarer. Rumplestiltskin could count on one hand the mages who had fallen in love. . . And thinking of this made him all the angrier at Hook for what the pirate had done to him through his attack on Belle.

He holds Tamara's hand just a moment longer than she's comfortable with: he sees a flash of—not annoyance, but worry in her face as she pulls away. That interests him: what has she to worry about? Even more interesting is what he detected in her hands. Although she herself possesses no magic, her fingertips are tinged with it: she's been _handling_ magic, somehow; fairy magic and dark magic.

The only magic this girl hasn't handled is True Love.

He must look dismayed and worried too, because now Tamara has stepped back, as though startled by him, and Bae is scowling. Gold has no idea how he will broach this subject with Bae, but broach it he must, and as soon as possible. _I used magic to find out that your girlfriend is lying to you about everything, including her feelings for you. _What part of that sentence wouldn't freak Bae out? More importantly, who's Bae going to believe, his fiancée, upon whom he depends; or his father the Dark One?

Gold's going to need help on this, someone Bae trusts. And quick, because if she's not here for love, she's just received a whole lot of very dangerous information that should have been kept from her. The Milah discussion will have to wait until this threat—whatever it is—is over. Gold can't risk driving Bae away before he's had a chance to warn him about Tamara.

Gold slides on his poker face, though he may have already tipped his hand to Tamara. "Hello, Tamara. Welcome to Storybrooke."

She launches into the niceties, for Bae's sake, not Gold's: she and Gold both realize they already have the measure of each other. So whatever she's up to, Bae's clueless about it. Like father, like son, Gold thinks; when it comes to romance, they've both been blind. Ah, but if only Bae could have met Belle, could have seen what True Love looks like. . . .

They talk politely for a few minutes, then Tamara makes up some excuse and sweeps Bae away. As she pulls him from the hospital room, Bae glances back at his father and shrugs in helpless apology. If she's smart—and Gold thinks she is—she won't allow Bae to visit the hospital again without her. She probably screens his phone calls and text messages too. Well, Gold can always fall back on magic if he has to, but it will have to be done in a way that Bae won't suspect.

Gold sinks into himself. Chances are, Bae's about to be crushed. Chances are, Gold's about to lose his son again. And chances are, Tamara's got evil up her sleeve.

In the parking lot, Bae seizes her arm. "What's the rush? You hardly said hello to him. And I was gonna ask him to show you some magic so you'd believe me about this place."

"Magic. Really," Tamara huffs. "It's time to let that joke go, Neal." She climbs into the driver's seat of her car.

He slides into the passenger seat. "But we were there barely ten minutes!"

"He gives me the creeps." She slams the transmission into Drive.

"What? What did he say that upset you? I'll make him apologize."

"It's not what he said." Because of course Gold had been nothing but polite. "It's the way he looked at me, like he wants me to disappear or something." She shudders. "It's his eyes."

Bae runs a hand through his hair. "His eyes? What's wrong with his eyes?" But she's pulling out into traffic so she doesn't answer. "Most people like his eyes." He's tempted to add _most people say my eyes are just like his. _He rolls down his window and watches the buildings pass by. "How do I make him change his _eyes_?"

**Mayor's mansion, 7:30 pm**

Regina has the very valid excuse of searching the Charmings' apartment, so after bringing Cora a lovely dinner, the queen ducks out on the remaining 90 minutes of the allowed visiting period. Cora claims to be disappointed, but her frown is fake. In truth, the two women realize that if their plan succeeds, they and Henry will be all the society each other has, until they've established themselves in their new land, and their relationship is already strained. A small break is welcome.

Cora has plenty to do anyway. Regina has brought her some books "appropriated" from the pawnshop: Rumple's so busy with his son, he'll never miss them. Cora will make a list of realms suitable for their new home, and the two mothers together will make the final selection.

Meanwhile, Regina is searching for the compass, the one that rightfully belongs to Cora. She's heard that Snow and David are honeymooning at the inn, Emma's on duty, and Henry's being babysat by Granny. Seems his usual babysitter, Red, already had a babysitting job: the drunken Lacey. Regina giggles: if she hadn't been so busy, she would have popped over to the Rabbit Hole and got a few photos for future blackmail opportunities. Oh well, there will be more opportunities tomorrow, and more salacious: Storybrooke has yet to make Lacey's acquaintance.

Regina has two hours before Emma comes home. She enjoys a good long snoop: she hasn't investigated this apartment since Snow and Emma's return from the Enchanted Forest. It's awfully crowded, now that David's moved in. Regina relishes the fact that when this chore is done, she will be going back to her four-bedroom, three bath with hot tub and swimming pool in the back.

She will be going back _all alone_ to her four-bedroom, three-bath.

How did all her plans fall apart so fast?

**Storybrooke General Room 304, 8:00 pm**

Gold's head is bent over a book and his hair hides his face. As Slightly enters the room, having ascertained that he's not interrupting other visitors, he can see the bed is covered in playing cards, fanned out in groups of five: each group represents a complete poker hand. Slightly tilts his head to see the title of the book Gold is studying.

He approaches the bed, but Gold doesn't look up. He has to call out to the patient, and that worries him a bit.

"Oh, Mr. Slightly." Gold sets the book aside. "Please." He gestures to the empty chair.

Slightly takes the seat. "You remember my name. Considering everything that was going on when we met, I'm impressed."

"Don't be. It's, uh, a necessary skill in my line of work."

Slightly indicates the cards. "Learning poker?"

"Got a game at 10 o'clock."

"You're going to learn poker in one night? There are dozens of different types of poker."

Gold shrugs. "Poker is a game of strategy, is it not? My strategy is to convince my opponents I'm a naïve novice and lose big to them tonight. Then when they invite me back next week, I'll have memorized this book and I'll clean their clocks."

"Ah." Slightly glances toward the hallway. "You expecting any other visitors tonight, Mr. G.?"

He now has Gold's full attention. "No. Is there something you wish to discuss?"

Slightly gets up to close the door, then comes back and pulls the chair closer before he sits down, leaning forward and lowering his voice. "It's about Tamara."

Gold's features freeze. Yes, Gold will be a winning poker player, Slightly surmises; he has no idea what Gold's thinking right now. "Go on."

"Petey's been my friend for almost two hundred years," he begins. "We've fought side by side in more battles than I can count. He's saved my life a time or two."

Gold nods. He understands that Slightly feels the need to establish his loyalty to Bae because he's about to betray Bae. That gives Slightly and Gold something in common. "What do you have, Mr. Slightly?"

He folds and unfolds his hands nervously. "I was at the inn a few minutes ago. I saw Tamara go into one of the rooms." He glances up at Gold. "She's playin' him, Mr. G. There was a man there waiting for her. He grabbed her and kissed her, and believe me, it was no long-lost-pal kiss."

Gold watches him closely, seeing how this revelation pains him. With a slow nod, the pawnbroker makes a decision; he's going to do something he hasn't done in a very, very long time, not since his days with Cora: he's going to willingly share information. "She's not what she purports to be. Her heritage isn't of this world. And more troublesome, she's not a mage, but she's been handling magic."

"What are we going to do about her?" Slightly squirms. "And how do we break it to Petey?"

Here is something else that's new, and Gold's hesitant to accept it; he turned his back on trust a long time ago. But he sees that Slightly is sincere—and for the first time since becoming the Dark One, Gold has an offer of help that comes without price. His Scottish accent thickens. "You're with me then, Mr. Slightly? An alliance?"

Slightly jumps up to check the hallway. Assured of their privacy, he returns to his seat and his voice drops even lower than before. "In the interest of full disclosure, Mr. Gold, I need to tell you who sent me here, and why."

Gold doesn't bat an eyelash. Oh yes, Slightly thinks, he'll make a fine poker player, once he's learned the rules.

"Perhaps you could do something to make certain we're not interrupted?" Slightly suggests, and Gold summons some magic—he's not up to full strength yet, which is the only reason he's allowed Whale to keep him shut up in this breeding ground for germs. A sound barrier isn't difficult, though—but as he conjures it, he abruptly stops because his sinuses are irritated. Nothing in nature has ever disturbed Gold's sinuses, but magic has. When magic isn't strong enough or fresh enough for him to smell it, nevertheless it will irritate his sinuses, making his nose tingle and his eyes burn, and right now his nose is tingling. He orders his own powers to ascertain the location of the intruding magic: he finds it quickly enough—the mage had made no attempt to hide it, probably assuming that in his condition he'd never detect it.

Wrapped around the handle of a basket of daisies is a red ribbon, and attached to the red ribbon is a shiny little mirror. Ah, yes, mirror magic. Traditional Regina.

Annoyed, he crushes the mirror, then casts the sound barrier spell. "Proceed, Mr. Slightly."

Slightly sits back in his chair, comfortable now. "I'd like to start with a story, one that I hope will win your trust."

Gold's lips twitch into a smile. "That will be some story. I have a lot of practice when it comes to doubting what I hear."

"Once upon a time," Slightly begins, "there was a young woman whom the Fates had chosen to break a terrible curse. Anyone who knew her would have thought, however, that she was destined for prison, and in fact, that's where she spent her eighteenth year. While in prison she gave birth to a child, and not being in a position to care for him, she gave him up for adoption. It so happened that in a small town three thousand miles away, a man was searching for an adoptable child, to fulfill the wishes of a lonely ex-queen." He paused a moment. "Did you ever wonder, Mr. Gold, why the curse gave you two professions, one of which this town, given the time lock placed on it, had little use for?"

When Gold nods once, Slightly continues, "The fact is, it didn't. The curse made you a pawnbroker. My boss made you a lawyer, but not so you could draw up leases and loan agreements and the like. She made you a lawyer for one reason only."

"Henry."

"Henry. So you could bring Henry to town, because, as you suspected, Henry has a big job ahead of him, and he needs Storybrooke—all of the residents of Storybrooke, from the ex-queen on down to Leroy—to help raise him. Every one of you has a weapon to add to his arsenal and values to add to his character. Every one. You call his mother a savior—well, just wait until Henry reaches manhood. You ain't seen nothin' yet. Just as you've suspected, your role is to teach him magic—but there are certain qualities of character that are just as important that he'll learn from you."

Gold's poker face cracks and he grunts, "Character? Me?"

"The quality that kept you searching for your son for two hundred years is one of the qualities he's going to need to lead his people. So, Mr. Gold, my boss wove her plans intricately around your own and Regina's, and here we are, our plans unfolding nicely. Or were, until a woman bumped into a man and spilled coffee on him. And now we're all in a hell of a lot of trouble. Mr. Gold, you have to stop your daughter-in-law-to-be and her lover."

Gold scowls. "Who isn't Bae."

"Who isn't Bae," Slightly agrees.

"Who is he, then?"

"I don't know, but as Henry would say, 'Something bad.' And so is she. Those beans you were going to use to send Cora and Regina away—"

"Oh, so you were the bearer of the bugged flowers." Gold's mouth narrows.

"Nope, we don't go in for electronics much. I got the intel from my boss, who happened to be listening at the time. Actually, she's been listening to you a lot over the years."

"Because of Henry."

"Yeah, and because of you. See, she aims to make you a convert." Slightly spreads his hands. "Winning the Dark One over, that's a pretty impressive feat, right? It'd make a lot of doubters think twice."

"Dearie, I'm an old, old soul. Not much I believe in any more."

"No, sir," Slightly says firmly, "you're already a believer; she just wants you to admit it and come work on our team. She's got one of our star players pitching to you. You've been swingin' and missin' so far, but one of these days, you'll hit it out of the park. Anyway, as I was saying, you can't send Regina away: she's needed for Team Henry. But you've got to send Tamara and her beau away. Bae's gonna hate you for a little while, but it has to be done. I'm here to put all the resources of my employer at your disposal, up to the final disposition. I'm afraid for that you'll be on your own."

"Who is your employer?" But there's a knowing look in Gold's eyes that suggests he didn't really need to ask.

"Someone you haven't met, but she's been observing your centuries-old search for Bae with great interest. The strength of your devotion to your son—she admires it. You might say she's a fan."

Gold mutters, remembering something he once told Charming: "I'm a fan of True Love."

"That's my boss," Slightly says with pride. "I work for Love."


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

**The Charmings' Apartment, 10 pm**

Very little happens in Storybrooke that Regina doesn't know about. In fact, until two years ago when Henry ran away to Boston, very little happened in Storybrooke, period; it all went according to her script, right down to which night of the week (Saturday) Mary Margaret would go home to her empty apartment with a carton of Rocky Road and a rented DVD (always a chick flick) and sob salty tears into her ice cream as another heroine suffered a broken heart.

Those were the days, Regina thinks now, ignoring the fact that when she was living those days, she found them screamingly boring. But as she rifles through the medicine cabinet of the tiny bathroom that three adults and one pre-adolescent share, she wishes Henry hadn't taken that first curse-crumbling step. Life would be so much easier now.

The alarm on her phone goes off. It's ten o'clock; Emma's off-duty. She'll be home in less than fifteen minutes. Regina speeds up her efforts. So far in the apartment, she's found a secret stash of candy under Henry's bed (infuriating! Doesn't Emma know what sugar can do to a sensitive child?), a secret stash of romance novels (the bodice-ripping kind) under Snow and David's bed (Regina gets a chuckle out of imagining that the books belong to David), a package of birth control pills (Emma's or Snow's?) and an overdue Boston Public Library book (three years overdue; Regina wonders if she can use this against Emma during the upcoming election. That and job abandonment—the good sheriff did, after all, run off to the Enchanted Forest for nearly a month, leaving in her place an untrained, non-city employee who, now that Regina thinks about it, probably doesn't even have a license to carry a gun).

Regina's anxious now. She's pretty sure she's searched every corner of every drawer, cupboard and closet in the apartment. If—no, she shakes her head firmly: _when_ she gets her hands on the compass, she'll enchant it so that if she ever mislays it, she can summon it to her, maybe just by whistling. She hears the squeak of floorboards in the hallway outside the apartment and the scrape of a key in a lock, and she vanishes. She'll have to come back later tonight when Emma's asleep, and just hope the sheriff isn't a light sleeper. Maybe a little soundproofing spell will help.

As she returns to the sanctity of her own bedroom, Madame Mayor suddenly wonders what if Snow hid the compass someplace else? A safe deposit box at the bank, her classroom at school? With a heavy sigh, Regina resumes her search.

**Rabbit Hole, Saturday/Sunday, midnight**

"Sorry, Mr. G., but I think you need to see this." Slightly emerges from the darkness. The neon lights of the bar's overhead sign make his skin look Pepto-Bismol pink, while Gold's skin appears green (or maybe that's not the neon, Slightly thinks: maybe Gold's skin is turning back to its Rumplestiltskin state. He'd like to see that. He's heard the imp described many times, but every describer comes up with a different description). "Were you losing?"

Gold flashes a brief grin. "Miserably. But at least I got my shoes back." His cane taps against the Ferragamos. "Now, what brings us to this vile place in the middle of the night?"

"They tried to call Red, but she didn't pick up, so they called me." As Slightly yanks open the door, Gold gives him a quick look, having noticed the reference to _Red_, not _Ruby_. Then the two men are blasted back by raucous music and laughter, cigarette smoke and the assorted scents of various kinds of alcohol. When their eyes adjust to the light (it doesn't take long, as the light inside is purposefully kept dim), they enter.

Mitch looks up from a shot he's pouring and nods them over to the bar. Gold draws his body in tight, as though concerned that a drunk might pick his pocket or spill Budweiser on his Ferragamos. Mitch says something to one of the waitresses and she takes his place behind the bar as he comes around to meet the new arrivals. Beads of sweat form above his upper lip as he sees that it's not Ruby who's accompanying Slightly this time. "Mr. Gold. Sorry for the disturbance. We wanted to keep you out of this." Mitch scowls at Slightly. "You dragged him out of the hospital for this?"

Gold interrupts, "A poker game, actually. Why did you call, Mr.—uh—"

"Alvarez." Mitch wipes his upper lip with his sleeve.

"Ah, yes. The three-bedroom Colonial on Second and Sycamore."

Mitch nods reluctantly. "Please don't raise my rent because of this, Mr. Gold." He leads them to the pool room at the back of the saloon. It's so crowded Slightly wonders how the players can manage to make their way around the tables.

"What am I supposed—" Gold starts, then his eyes fix on one of the players and he clamps his mouth shut.

Slightly follows his gaze. She isn't playing pool; she's sitting on one of the pool tables, her legs splayed, and a player is cuing up with the obvious intention of shooting the eight ball right up her tiny skirt. She's laughing, her head tilted back, and stuffing balls down her blouse as another man pours beer down her throat.

Gold mutters a profanity.

"Please, Mr. Gold, don't bust the place up," Mitch begs.

"Then Emma would have to arrest both of you," Slightly points out. "She needs help, not jail."

"She needs a cure for this bloody curse," Gold hisses. He starts forward, his cane raised and ready to attack, but Slightly holds him back.

"Let me get her." Slightly elbows his way through the crowd, and with a few quietly menacing words to the men that Lacey has been amusing, he grabs her by the waist and pulls her off the table.

"Freckles!" She greets him with a sloppy kiss. "You're looking for a threesome, huh? Where's Ruby?" As he hauls her over to Gold and Mitch, she points, though her finger has trouble focusing. "I seen you somewhere. A foursome, huh?"

"Good gods," Gold groans. "Belle. . . ."

"You still calling me that?" the woman pats Gold's chest. "Well, I hope you find her."

"She thinks her name is Lacey," Slightly explains.

Gold grabs her other arm and he and Slightly drag her from the pool room, through the bar and out into the parking lot. Mitch has followed them. "Please, Mr. Gold, it's not my fault. I didn't want to involve you."

"Consider me involved, Mr. Alvarez." Gold ducks as Lacey tries to plant a wet kiss on his mouth. "If this ever happens again—"

"Gods forbid," Mitch and Slightly pray in unison.

"Call me." Gold opens the back door of his Caddy and Slightly pushes Lacey inside. Gold runs his hand through his hair; Mitch has never seen him ruffled like this. "You'll be rewarded for your discretion."

"Thank you, Mr. Gold." Mitch backs away as Slightly climbs into the back seat to prevent Lacey from crawling out the window she's just rolled down.

Gold starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot. "Where has she been staying?"

"Red gave her a room at the inn." Slightly pushes Lacey back down into the seat and struggles to fasten her seat belt. Every time he gets it latched, Lacey giggles and unlatches it until he finally gives up. If Storybrooke has a seat belt law, it doesn't seem likely the sheriff's going to jump out of bed and chase the Caddy down in her pajamas.

This stranger—Gold forces himself to think of her that way, and tonight it's not difficult: she has very little in common with Belle—demands he turn on the radio. He ignores the demand but she seems to think he's obeyed her because she begins to croon along to a song she thinks she hears, banging her head against the window in time to the music.

"Fill me in, Mr. Slightly." Gold's voice is weary as he makes eye contact through the rear view mirror.

She leans into Slightly. "You wanna party? Fifty for you, seventy-five for ol' stick-up-the-arse up there."

"Red says it came on suddenly, yesterday afternoon. One minute everything was fine—well, not fine, I mean, she didn't know who she was, but Archie had taken her out of the hospital and she was starting to get adjusted. She and Red had lunch plans, but when Red went to get her, she suddenly took off, didn't say a word to anyone. Last night Mitch called Emma, and Emma called us to come get her. She seems awfully determined to get herself into trouble."

"I've got to do something before some sleaze takes her offer seriously."

Slightly gives Lacey a push to force her off him. "Before Emma has to arrest her. Last night it was just drunk and disorderly. If Emma had seen what went down tonight, she'd have no choice but to arrest her for solicitation."

Gold slams his hand against the steering wheel. "This is my fault. I did this to her."

"What makes you say that?" Slightly is surprised.

"I know the laws of magic. I knew when I brought magic to this land there'd be hell to pay, but I did it anyway, and with her—" his voice locks up. "With her standing right there beside me, in slippers and a hospital gown. Not ten minutes out of Regina's secret torture chamber. I promised to protect her, and not ten minutes later I'd hauled her out into the woods so I could—" he sucks in a breath. He can't or won't finish his explanation.

Slightly accepts that. He's come to realize that Gold has been alone, emotionally if not always physically, all of his long life, and the small confession he's just given is a major step forward for him. "There's a way, Mr. G.," he says quietly. "And you'll find it."

Just a twinge of hope mixes with the bitterness in Gold's answer. "I take it Belle's part of True Love's plan for Henry?"

"For Henry," Slightly replies. "And for you."

Gold's head snaps up and he glances over his shoulder. Slightly adds, "The boss has gone all in on you."

"That's a sucker bet," Gold mutters.

"No. I told you, we know you're already a believer. You just got to be converted to the cause."

"Is that your job, Mr. Slightly?"

"No, that's yours. I'm just here to provide some resources." Lacey is attempting to crawl into the front seat and Slightly drags her back. "The main one being Belle. It might not seem like it now, but Belle's the pitcher I was talking about."

Gold raises an eyebrow. "Indeed?"

"There is a way," Slightly repeats. "A man who spent three hundred years learning how to bottle True Love surely won't let a piddly little curse stand in his way."

**Storybrooke General, parking lot, 12:30 am**

He shuts off the engine and rests his forehead against the steering wheel, trying to think. Something on the floorboard on the passenger side catches the light from a street lamp; he bends and fishes around for the object. It's a silver comb, and as he holds it reverently in both hands he remembers that Belle had mentioned losing it. That was weeks ago, before Hook and Cora arrived; that was before he had Bae, but when he still had Belle.

Is this the law the Fates have set for Rumplestiltskin? A son restored at the price of a beloved. If, somehow, as Slightly seems so sure, Gold manages to bring Belle back, will Bae be taken away?

Gold runs his finger across the teeth of the comb, remembering how it sparkled against her dark hair. He finds a strand of her hair caught deep in the teeth; he unravels the hair and holds it up to the moonlight, admiring—

And then he conjures a vial and drops the strand inside, and with a shrill giggle he plucks out a strand from his own head.

"_A man who spent three hundred years learning how to bottle True Love surely won't let a piddly little curse stand in his way." _A hint if Gold ever heard one.

**Storybrooke General, Room 666, 5 am**

"How long has she been dead?"

Emma's voice is thick with sleep, and her clothes—the same ones she wore yesterday and dropped onto the floor before she collapsed into bed five hours ago—are rumpled, but her mind's firing on all cylinders. She's about to launch her second murder investigation since taking office a year ago, and already it's pretty certain this case won't work out as well as the previous one.

"I can't be sure till we run tests," Whale says. "Last time the orderlies looked in on her was 11 p.m. She was sleeping peacefully." His arms are folded and he's staring down curiously at the body. Emma notices that he doesn't seem the least fazed by the murder that's taken place on his watch; she also notices a wad of small bills stuffed into his lab coat.

"Where'd you get the money?" Emma indicates the wad.

"Poker." Whale smirks. "Most of it's Gold's."

"Gambling's illegal in this state. Class D crime, one to three years in prison." Emma points out. "Next time you play with Gold, invite me." Leroy comes running in, pushing his way through the hospital staff that have crowded into the room. "Push 'em back, Leroy," she orders. "No one comes in unless I say so, and nobody touches anything. Until we find out if this was due to natural causes, this room is a crime scene. I'll need a list of everyone who was on duty tonight, doctors, janitors, everybody."

"Should we notify the next of kin?" Whale wonders.

Emma growls, "Damn it. Not yet. Not till I get a full squad out here; she's liable to tear the place apart. Somebody take care of him," she indicates Bashful, who's holding his aching head as he scrambles to his feet. "And get Gold up here."

"Gold?" Whale is perplexed. "I don't think Cora needs an attorney at this stage of the game."

Emma shoots him a nasty look. "Get me Gold."

**Storybrooke General, Room 666, 5:15 am**

The crowd of hospital workers hovering in the hallway falls silent and parts at the tap-step-tap-step-tap-step approaching from the hallway. Gold steps into the room, pauses to assess the situation, then, his footsteps heavier and slower, he joins Emma at bedside.

Emma is a fount of questions and she's anxious to get to work, but something in his silence makes her wait. She glances sideways at him. So wrapped up in thoughts of procedure—this time she won't make any mistakes: if this turns out to be a murder and not death by natural causes, she will learn all that can be learned during her investigation, and the killer will be brought to justice—she hadn't given much thought to the human element. Gold is standing there, typically dressed in his tailored clothes (sans jacket and tie), typically holding himself stiffly, his cane front and center, a not-so-subtle reminder that though he has a disability, he can and will defend himself quite capably. He's typically silent, requiring others to pry words from him, but atypically, a muscle in his cheek is twitching and his eyes have glazed over. Emma dares to look more closely—he barely seems aware of her—and decides that glaze doesn't mean he's checked out: it means he's fighting off emotions.

It makes sense now: sure, someone like him would know all of the Enchanted Forest's possessors of magic. Probably even taught some of them. But it had just never occurred to her that Gold might have feelings for some of them. Respectfully, she returns her attention to the deceased and gives Gold a shadow of privacy. She doesn't understand him: Cora would have literally stabbed him in the back, and she's sure he wouldn't have hesitated to kill her to stop her, yet here he is, staring at the witch's body as though she's a beloved sister or. . . .

She's got to get started. Every minute that she allows to pass is another minute for the killer to get away. "Mr. Gold?" she prompts. "Would you look at this?"

Gold and Emma bend over the body to examine two tiny round marks on Cora's neck. "Burn marks," Emma observes. "Whale says they weren't there when he examined her at 9 o'clock."

Gold goes all-business. "But Bashful was here?"

"Yeah. Until someone knocked him out, around midnight. He didn't see his attacker."

"You can scan his memories, as you did Pongo's," Gold suggests. "Perhaps a sound or a scent will provide information."

"Magic was used here," Emma says, rubbing her arms. "I can feel it. Makes me itch."

"Eventually you'll learn to differentiate between types of magic, sometimes even the individual mage." He rubs his nose. "Magic wasn't _used_ here but it was expelled. Those marks weren't caused by magic." He lifts Cora's hand and studies the fingertips, running his own fingers over them. "Her magic is gone."

"Is that to be expected? Does magic die with the magician?"

"No. It remains in the body until the body decomposes, and then it dissipates. And we prefer the term _mage_ or _sorcerer_ or _practitioner of magic_. A magician is an actor who pulls rabbits out of hats."

"So what happened to her magic?" Emma rubs the back of her neck: all this information is giving her a headache.

Gold shrugs. "I have no idea."

Despite Emma's orders, someone on the hospital staff has snuck out and phoned Regina, and the queen arrives by way of magic, her nightgown and hair in disarray, her eyes frantic. "What happened?" she asks in a cracking voice. She bumps against Emma, who steps back, and she shoves Gold out of the way so she can crouch beside the bed. "Mother? Mother?" She stokes Cora's cheek to awaken her, and when that fails, she grabs her mother's hand and pats it. "Mother! Wake up, Mother!"

"Regina," Emma reaches for her, but Regina slaps her across the face.

"Leave me alone! You will not touch my mother!" She keeps stroking Cora's hand and talking to her in soft, encouraging tones.

Whale steps in, clasping a hand on the queen's shoulder. "She's gone, Regina." When she doesn't fight him, he slides his hands under her elbows and lifts her to her feet. He urges her to turn so he can embrace her, but she will have none of it: she pushes him away. "This is your fault!" she shouts at Emma. "You were supposed to protect her. Where are your deputies? They were supposed to be guarding her."

The guards had been called in not to protect Cora, but to protect the public from Cora, but Emma doesn't correct Regina's assessment of the situation.

Regina notices Gold for the first time. "You! You killed her! You used her and threw her away, and when she came back, strong and powerful, and faced you down, you feared her. You attacked her in her sleep, when she was sick and couldn't fight back!"

Gold doesn't respond.

"Arrest him!" Regina swats at Emma. "Go on! He's the only one who'd do something so diabolical."

"Regina," Emma shakes her head. She doesn't know what to say.

"See if he has an alibi. Ask him where he was tonight."

"I don't have to ask," Emma argues. "He's been in Room 304 since Thursday."

"Except when he was playing poker with me and three other doctors," Whale adds. "That was around ten to—" He stops suddenly.

"What is it, Whale?" Emma urges.

"Well, he got a phone call and he left early. Around midnight, I guess. But we'd cleaned him out of cash, so there was no point in him sticking around."

Emma's spitting nails. "We can settle this right now. Mr. Gold, where did you go when you got your phone call?"

Gold's grip on his cane tightens, but so do his lips.

"Gold," Emma pushes. "Where did you go?"

He doesn't reply and Regina demands, "There! Arrest him! With his magic, he has the means to kill, and he had motives galore."

"I didn't kill Cora," Gold answers.

"Did anyone see you after you left the poker game?" When he remains silent, Emma presses, "Is there anyone who can vouch for you after you left the game?" Still, he doesn't answer and she sighs. "Come on, Gold, this is a big staff. Someone must have seen you. Just give me an alibi and we can stop wasting our time on this."

He raises his chin and stares off into space. He's not about to tell Emma or anyone else where he was an hour ago, especially in front of Regina. He'll go to jail first. And if the sheriff decides his silence is impeding an investigation, jail is a distinct possibility.

"She would have killed him to take his magic," Regina continues. "He was afraid of her, so he killed her in her sleep, like the coward he is. Are you a coward too, Sheriff? Are you going to let a killer walk away?"


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

**Storybrooke General, Room 666, 5:25 am**

"I didn't kill Cora." Gold stands firm. "You'll just have to take my word for that, Ms. Swan."

Emma studies him for a brief moment. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Gold. You're free to go."

"What?" Regina rages. "You're letting a murderer walk out?"

"I have no cause to suspect him. Besides, he's a hospital patient. I'm letting him go back to his room to get some rest." Emma softens her voice. "Regina, is there anyone I can call for you?"

"You're not getting away with this, Rumplestiltskin!" Regina calls after the retreating Gold.

"Look, Regina," Emma takes out her phone. "I'm going to call Archie. You really shouldn't be alone right now." As she dials, Emma can hear the tap-step-tap-step fading down the hall. If a cane tap can sound sad, this one does. Her grip on the phone tightens as she waits for Archie to pick up. If the lab tests prove this to be murder, she's going to have to pry into the history of Gold's relationship with Cora. She's pretty sure she doesn't want to go there.

She gestures as three of the dwarves rush in. "Mike." She just can't bring herself to call him "Dopey." "Find out where Tamara is. Don't approach her, don't let her see you. Right now I just want to know where she is." Dopey nods and takes off. "Walter." Sleepy snaps to attention. "Same thing for Greg Mendell."

Simultaneously, the ME arrives and Archie answers his phone. Emma shifts into high gear, forgetting the three hours of sleep that she's been cheated out of. In the middle of her conversation with Archie, she suddenly has a brain flash and waves Happy over. "Get over to the inn. Henry's with Ruby. Stay with them tonight."

If her instincts are right, Henry could be in danger. She hangs up from Archie and intervenes in the ME's argument with Regina, who is refusing to allow her mother's body to be desecrated. Emma ends the disagreement by introducing a new worry: "Listen, Regina. We have to consider the possibility that whoever did this may have more victims on their hit list. I want to put you in protective custody."

"I'm quite capable of taking care—" but as the ME's team arrives to remove the body, the queen's shoulders slump. "All right." Her face darkens when her new guard arrives: David.

Emma desperately wants to see Henry, see him tucked into his bed safe and sound, but the best way she can protect him to do her job. It'll be some hours before the ME's report comes in; in the meantime, she needs to question her primary suspect, and she needs to warn Bae that Henry may be in danger. The really rough part is, she suspects the solution to both problems will be found in the same location.

She climbs into the squad car and heads over to Granny's.

**Mayor's mansion, 5:45 am**

Archie has driven Regina home. David, following in his Ford, enters the house first, searches the rooms, then permits them to enter. David takes up watch outside the house. She allows Archie in, a first: he's never set foot in her house. It occurs to him, as they walk through the foyer, that this doesn't look like the home a child would live in. It's elegant, sophisticated, cold. He finds no signs of Henry that don't fit that style: there are photos of him, yes, but all are professional portraits. There are no toys, no boy's clothes, no scuff marks or Kool Aid stains. It would have helped if he had seen all this when he was treating Henry.

Surprisingly, she leads him to her office instead of the living room. She sits behind the desk and encourages him to sit in a straight-backed chair in front of the desk; their positions are her way of signaling who has the power here. She turns on the espresso machine; only after the coffee is ready does she ask if he'd like some. He declines. "Regina, would you like to talk about what happened?"

"I'm going to kill him," she spits.

"Kill-? We don't know yet that your mother was murdered, or if she was, who did it."

"I know," she answers with certainty. "He may be more powerful than me, but when his back is turned I'm going to kill him."

"Who? Rumplestiltskin?"

She rises and begins to pace, her coffee sloshing dangerously in its cup. "He thinks he's got away with it. Nobody will come after him, because they feel sorry for him. But he's going to pay. First I'm going to take his family away, like he did to me. And then when he's on his knees sobbing, I'll kill him and take his power." She makes a stabbing motion with her free hand, and the movement causes her coffee to spill onto the white carpet. She doesn't notice.

"What makes you so sure Rumplestiltskin killed your mother?"

"He's the only one who would have dared," she hisses. "I'll kill his son in front of him. Slow, so it takes hours for him to die."

"You'll be killing Henry's father."

She ignores his comment. "I'll flay the skin from his body so there will no place the Dark One can hide without hearing his son's screams. And then I'll go after Belle."

"Regina, you can't mean that. Even if Rumplestiltskin is guilty, torturing and killing his family won't bring your mother back. An eye for an eye only leaves the world blind."

"Stuff your platitudes. He's going to suffer, and he's going to die for what he's taken from me!"

"Revenge won't take your pain away. I know you're suffering, Regina, but you must not think this way. You can't mean it. Violence won't make you feel better."

She stares at him. "Obviously, you don't know me."

**West Woods, sunrise**

It seems perfectly logical. Lake Nostros has the power to restore what was lost. Drop in True Love's potion and voila, love shall be restored. Then the lovers need only kiss to break the curse, yes?

In the vial in his left hand is True Love, in potion form—the True Love created from the relationship of Rumplestiltskin/Gold and Lady Belle/Belle French. In addition to the hair he took from her comb, worn in this world, he added a DNA swab he took from her favorite tea cup from the Dark Castle. In addition to the hair he plucked from his scalp tonight, he added a hair he found on his dragon-skin jacket. The old and the new blended together, surely the formula represents both their shy, innocent love in the Enchanted Forest and their mature, experienced love in Storybrooke.

Gold drops the vial into the well and listens for the faint splash. As the vial hits the water, Gold casts his hope upon the waters too: he asks for help. It's another first for him; this has been a night of firsts. He has nothing to offer in trade to the Goddess of True Love; she controls a power that tops his, so there's nothing he can bribe her with. From what he's read and heard about her, she doesn't do deals anyway. She's a master of the heart, and that's the only way the earthbound can communicate with her. So as he releases his potion and his hope, he opens his heart too. The words come at first in awkward, halting phrases, but they gain eloquence and power as he humbles himself to her. He ends with the simple observation, "I need her, and she needs me. I beg you, bring her back to me, but if you can't, I'll do everything in my power to protect her, whether she loves me or not, even if it's herself I have to protect her from."

He feels the wind shudder. His nose tingles: magic has been released. Whether it's done what he's asked, he will find out as soon as Lacey wakes up.

**Granny's B & B, 6 am**

He transports himself to Granny's B & B, room 7, and making himself invisible in the corner of the cozy bedroom, he waits. He should be thinking about Cora's murder or Tamara's identity, but at the moment he doesn't care about those things. A year ago, when Belle emerged from Regina's secret asylum, he had promised her he'd protect her, and he'd failed to keep that promise. Whatever happens with the murder investigation or the magic beans or anything else, he's determined to rectify that mistake, just as he's done his best to make things right with Bae.

He has to repair the damage his cowardice has done to his loved ones. Let the rest of the world go to hell. That's where he's bound, anyway.

In the parking lot behind the B & B, a garbage truck empties the dumpster before moving on. Dove watches it go, memorizing the faces of the sanitation workers, just in case. On the dashboard lies his phone, with the sheriff's number at the top of the phone book. With one touch he can summon her, if need be. And he thinks need may be, because an hour ago she called him: "Keep an eye on your boss, will ya? Especially watch out for his son's girlfriend. If you see her anywhere near Gold, call me, ASAP."

So Dove watches and waits.

**Granny's B & B, Room 8, 6 am**

With a deep sigh, Emma screws her courage to the sticking place and knocks on the door. She's quiet about it: she knows Belle's right next door, and Greg's in room 4; she doesn't want to alert him. A few whispered words with Walter confirms that Mendell's in the room, sleeping.

No one comes to the door. Damn it, Neal's always been a heavy sleeper. Emma pounds a little louder, then a little louder, and she hears stirrings in room 7: crap, she's awakened Belle. Finally Neal, in t-shirt and jockeys (modesty's never been a hang-up for him), yanks the door open and growls, "What?"

"Where's Tamara?" Emma tries to look into the room.

Neal throws his arms in the air in defeat and pushes the door wide open so she can see he's alone. She repeats, "Where's Tamara?"

He shrugs. "Went runnin', like she does every morning at 6. Why?"

"I need to talk to her."

"Well, you're gonna have a long wait." He plunks down on the edge of the bed and pulls on the jeans he's left lying on the floor.

"I see she hasn't broken you of your sloppiness," Emma mutters.

"You don't really wanna start an argument at 6 a.m., do you?" he glares at her.

"Still not a morning person, either." She comes in and sits in the rocking chair.

"You gonna hang around here pointing out my flaws for the next two hours while we wait? 'Cause if you are, at least go get us a cup of coffee and a donut." He snuffles, and she remembers his allergies and she can't help but smile a little. He notices and responds in kind. "You still addicted to bear claws?"

She nods. "You still hooked on jelly donuts?"

He nods and chuckles. "The gooier, the better."

"Look," he spreads his hands. "Tam's gonna be gone at least two hours. She's training for the marathon. Let me get a shower, huh, and we'll go down to the restaurant and I'll buy you breakfast. Sound like a plan?"

"Where did she go? The park?"

He shrugs. "Probably not. Your park's only a block long. Probably out on one of the farm roads." He stands. "Come on, Em. You know you're hungry. I can hear your stomach growling."

She takes out her phone. "Let me check on Henry first."

Now he's concerned. "Something wrong with Henry?"

"Yeah—no." She looks him in the eye. That's how they used to be with each other: straightforward, direct. "There was a. . .a death last night at the hospital—"

Neal's face drains of blood. "Not my dad!"

"No, he's fine." Her mouth flickers into a brief smile. "Other than losing his shirt in a poker game last night. No, it's Regina's mother."

"A second heart attack?" he guesses.

She shakes her head slowly. "I'm waiting for the ME's report."

"ME?" He sits back down. "You think it's murder then."

"The circumstances are. . . suspicious."

Now he scowls. "And you want to talk to Tam. Aw, f—k, Em, you can't think she—"He leaps to his feet and grabs his phone off the nightstand. "You're not talking to her without a lawyer present."

"I'm not arresting her, just asking a few questions."

He dials. "Yeah, well, just so happens my dad's an attorney, and I want him here when you ask those questions."

**Granny's B & B, Room 7, 6:05 am**

Gold has created a window seat where there was none, and he's resting there as the sun comes up behind him. Belle is buried beneath a Wedding Ring pattern quilt that, Gold knows, Granny made herself; Granny calls this room the bridal suite, though it's a single room no bigger than the others, and there have been no weddings in Storybrooke. Ever. Yet. Gold corrects himself. Hope is his most valuable asset; he will spend it on Belle, as he spent it on Bae; he believes that in the latter case, his centuries of hope were well spent. But it's in True Love's hands now.

Belle snuffles. He would dearly love to spoon with her, awaken her with a kiss; she's not a morning person like he is, but she always wakes with a smile, especially if a kiss and a cup of Earl Grey are the rewards. He wonders what she's dreaming. She used to enjoy describing her dreams over breakfast, and she took his silly interpretations seriously. He wonders if Lacey's dreams are different. He wonders if Lacey dreams she's Belle.

His phone shrills. Damn, how could he forget to set it on vibrate? He scrambles for it and silences it. The caller will just have to wait. The _world_ will just have to wait: this is Belle's time. If he'd made her his priority from the beginning, as she deserved, Hook never would have done this to her.

Too late. Belle struggles free of the quilt and sits up. It takes her several minutes of blinking and snuffling to awaken. He doesn't want to scare her, so he calls her name—"Belle," not "Lacey"—as he walks around to her side of the bed. "Good morning." He pours a glass of water for her.

She's a mess. Her mascara's run, her lipstick—black! Whatever possessed her to wear black lipstick?—is smeared, and her hair is a wreck. She groans and rubs her neck; she's probably hung over. But he's not interested in any of that; what he really needs to know is. . . .

"Belle?" he tries again, gently.

"Mr. Gold, what're you doin' here?" She kicks the quilt away, and then she notices she's still in the same clothes as last night. "Huh. I must've really gotten loaded last night. Sorry. Guess I promised you something I couldn't deliver, huh?"

"Oh." His voice falls with disappointment. He hadn't been sure what to expect, but he had expected something other than this.

She misunderstands, thinks he's disappointed in her lovemaking of last night—or lack thereof. "Take me out tonight. I'll make it up to you. Did you. . . pay me already?"

His heart sinks all the way to the floorboards.

"Oh, don't look so sad," she coos, clambering out of bed. She throws her arms around his neck. "You know, you're really awfully handsome, Mr. Gold. You always look so put together." Her hands slide into his hair. "Your hair's so soft, with just a touch of gray that's really sexy." She stands on tiptoe so they're nose to nose. "And your eyes. You have the most sensual, soulful. . . ." She pulls his head forward, slides her mouth against his. "I really like you, Mr. Gold." She deepens the kiss, and as her tongue explores his mouth he releases his cane to seize her waist and draw her in tight.

It wasn't supposed to go this way: True Love was supposed to be working on her, not him, but he's the one who's falling, and where she was supposed to remember, he's forgetting: forgetting his plans, his responsibilities. He slides a hand up to her back and presses her against his chest. She tastes of whiskey and beer and cigarettes, but he ignores it; she's offering to sell her body to him, but he ignores it. There's nothing, not one bloody thing, she can do that he won't forgive and love her through. The creature in his arms is a fabrication of the curse he and Regina created, but beneath the façade Belle still exists somewhere. He will cherish her and respect her and honor his promises to her, whatever she does. He will love her, as he has loved Bae, unconditionally, for the rest of his life.

Her voice is soft and sleepy as she relinquishes his mouth and rests her head on his chest. "Rumple? What are we doing here? What happened last night? My head's all foggy. Last thing I remember, we were kissing and something hit my shoulder and I fell."

"Well, we. . . .there was a lot of alcohol involved; I guess you—" He's been slow on the uptake, but he finally gets it. He raises her chin so he can look into her honest, loving gaze and he knows his prayer and his potion were received and found favor with the goddess. "Belle?"

She grins and clutches him tighter. "'You know you don't have to act with me, Steve. You don't have to say anything, and you don't have to do anything. Not a thing. Oh, maybe just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow.'"

He purses his lips and whistles lowly. And then with a laugh he captures her mouth again. . . until his phone rings.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

**Mayor's mansion, 6:05 am**

Regina needs a sense of normalcy right now, so regardless of how anyone else may feel about it, she's going to back to work. And who's to say she isn't doing this for the public good? There was never a recall election, nor has anyone dared call him- or herself mayor in these months since David "asked" her to abandon her office. By law, she's still the mayor, and the work of the municipal government must go on.

So she gets up, only five minutes later than usual, starts the coffee maker, and slips out of her nightgown and into the shower. She does everything in the exact order and in the exact way that she did them before the curse broke. If she keeps moving, if she lets muscle memory take over, if she concentrates on city business—it will soon be budget planning time; she needs to meet with the department heads—if she keeps her mind and her hands constantly busy, she won't feel anything. If, if, if.

One cup of coffee, black; two slices of wheat toast, dry; one bowl of oatmeal with slices of apple. Bush the teeth, brush the hair, put on the make-up. One black pencil skirt, black silk blouse, black jacket. A newspaper on the porch. Car in the drive. Four point five minutes' drive to City Hall. Sort through the morning mail, since her secretary seems to have abandoned the job (must have remembered that in the old country, she was the pampered daughter of a wealthy importer and gone off to find Daddy). Turn on her computer and scan the email. She's in the midst of an answer to the head of the Department of Sanitation when something about the way he says "hydraulic lift" tears at her heart and she begins to sob. She runs to the door that separates her office from the secretary's and slams and locks it, just in case someone wanders in. Returning to her desk, she snatches at a tissue, only to find the box is empty; she throws the box at the trash can and misses and that makes her tears start all over again. She conjures a handkerchief.

But on the heels of the sobs come messy bubbles of laughter. What the hell? She's always been so decisive, so sure of what she wants; yes, she'd even cop to single-mindedness, so why can't her heart pick one emotion and stick with it? But she's got to clear out these conflicting emotions before she can move on, so she rides the waves as they come: crying, laughing, raging. By the time she's wrung out, her nose is stuffed and her eyes puffy and her mind is soggy. She walks away from her computer, stares out the window at the awakening town: the cricket walking his dog, the old woman setting out the sandwich board for her restaurant, lights going on in the shops along Main Street. There's surprisingly little traffic—and then the church bell rings and she remembers today is Sunday, and she sinks into her chair and cries all over again.

Why didn't she cry like this when Hook brought her mother's (supposedly) dead body back from Wonderland? She decides it must have been the curse: she had a curse she was working on, a grand scheme, a hope (even if her wish was the degradation of her enemies). She has nothing now, not even the damn compass to get her back to the Enchanted Forest. Just a pile of beans in the safe behind her refrigerator.

And yet, if there were anyone in Storybrooke that would dare to ask her—anyone, that is, that she could confide in (an impossibility, of course: even if she hadn't cast the curse, she's a queen, and with no king and no court to cocoon her, she will allow no one to see her vulnerable)—she would admit that way beneath the grief, she's feeling. . . a sense of freedom. Yes. Is that horrible? Is it heartless? But nevertheless, it's true. She is free now. _She_, not Cora, will define who she is, will set her own goals, will judge her own success. If she decides the burden of leadership is too heavy, she can walk away from it if she chooses, and who's to say no? And most importantly, marriage, if it happens, will be on her terms.

And so she laughs as she cries. She is unanchored; she will chart her course from now on.

**Granny's B & B Room 8, 6:10 am**

"So we need your legal advice, I guess. Maybe I'm being overcautious but I—" A knock at the door interrupts Bae's phone conversation with his father. "Hang on a minute, some—Oh!" He pulls the door open to find a fully dressed and fully alert Gold in the hallway, and there's a woman—the smiling woman from the photos in Gold's house—on his arm. She too is fully dressed and ready for the day.

"How—you magicked over here, I suppose." Bae looks annoyed. "You know, we could've just put you on speaker phone."

"No, I walked. I was next door." Well, it's technically true.

Bae stands aside. "Come on in, then. We've got at least a two-hour wait. Tam's out running. Marathon training."

His hand resting lightly on her back, Belle enters with Gold right behind her. She still has a bit of a dazed look in her eyes: she's been through so much in the past couple of weeks, her head is spinning. But all other thoughts are pushed out of her mind in another moment when Gold says, "Belle, I'd like to you meet my son, Baelfire, known in this world as Neal Cassidy. Bae, this is Belle."

Emma comes forward to join the family. Her eyes widen as she repeats, "Belle?"

"Baelfire." The way Belle pronounces the name, she may as well have said _the holy grail_. Her chin quivers but her smile lights up the room. Her hands reach out as if to hug him, but he seems a little puzzled by that, so she settles for squeezing his shoulder. "Two hundred years. . . .Baelfire. It's. . . I can't tell you how wonderful it is to meet you." She leans her head against Gold's shoulder. "I'm so happy for you, Rumple."

"Me too, sweetheart." He kisses the top of her head. "I've got you and Emma and Henry to thank for it." And in a perverse way, Regina, but it may be a long, long time before he admits that.

Emma's still flabbergasted. "Does that mean—do you—did your memory come back?"

"It has." A dozen emotions jumble together in those two words, the predominant ones amazement and relief. "Just a few minutes ago. I still feel a bit—off-balance."

Emma's not a hugger, but she knows Belle is, and this is a major breakthrough, so she makes an exception. After a firm hug, Emma says, "Welcome back. The town wasn't the same without you."

"Thank you, Emma. This is becoming quite the family reunion!"

As Belle borrows Gold's handkerchief, Bae, whose social graces never did get honed, openly stares at her. "So you're the beast tamer."

She twinkles at him. "What makes you think he didn't tame me?"

"I'm glad to finally meet you."

"I'm glad you're finally meeting me too, and not Lacey," she giggles. "Emma, I think I might owe you an apology. The last few days are a blur, but I have a feeling I might have said or done something I should apologize for."

"Well. . . " Emma scoffs. "Water under the bridge."

"All I want now is to take back my life—and steer clear of Hook."

Gold opens his mouth, about to make a veiled threat—Belle won't tolerate an open one—so Emma butts in. As sheriff, it's her job, not Gold's, to protect the citizens. "We'll get him, Belle; I won't quit until he's in jail." She glances at Bae. "We're going to have to put off hunting for him, though, till I find Cora's killer."

"Cora is dead?" Belle echoes. "Murdered?"

"Yeah, looks like it," Emma says reluctantly. "Sorry you had to come back to. . . that." She was about to say _bad news_, but truthfully, it's a relief to have Cora gone. She shifts her thoughts to the immediate future. "Look, um, we don't know for sure that's a murder; I'm waiting on the ME's report. But to be on the safe side, I'm advising everyone to be extra cautious, and call me if you see anything out of the ordinary. I'm going to do my damnest to make sure this is an isolated incident." She turns to the pawnbroker. "Goes for you too, Gold. Watch your back, keep your doors locked. That is, if you're officially out of the hospital now."

He answers her implied question with a shrug. "A leave of absence. I'll return shortly and finish out my sentence."

"Good. If Whale does release you tomorrow, I'd recommend you not plan to open your shop. Not until I catch Cora's killer."

"I can protect myself and my family, I assure you, Sheriff." Gold's posture is all peacefulness, but Emma frowns at him in remembrance of his vigilante justice against Moe French (does Belle know about that, Emma wonders).

"Yeah, I know your idea of protection. Listen, keep your phone handy, not your gun."

"You're overreacting, Em," Bae grumbles. "You don't even know the cause of death yet and already you've got some huge conspiracy theory constructed, with Tam at the center of it. You have zilch to go on. This town may be a little kingdom unto itself, but people here still have rights. Guilty until proven innocent, remember? Protection against search and seizure? Right to an attorney?"

"I'm not arresting anyone; I just need to ask a few questions. I've got a town to protect, including, remember, your father, your son and your friends from New York." Emma releases a frustrated breath.

"He's correct," Gold says quietly. "Tamara has a right to have an attorney present while you question her."

"You'll stand with her, won't you, Dad?" Something in Gold's tone has cast a slight new doubt in Bae.

Gold stands stock still, staring at the handle of his cane. As several long moments pass without a reply from him, Bae becomes increasingly worried and the women, uncomfortable. Belle offers a way to lessen the tension and give Gold time to decide (or, she suspects, to come up with the right words to reject Bae's request). "You said Tamara won't be back for quite a while yet. Why don't we go downstairs and have breakfast and then talk it over? And who knows, Tamara may have ideas of her own about who she wants for her attorney."

Bae raises his shoulders in surrender. "Whatever. Go on down. I'm going to get a quick shower and I'll meet you. Order for me, Em."

**Parking Lot, Granny's B & B, 6:15 am**

Mr. Dove saw her leave twenty minutes ago: her, the destroyer of lives and hearts. For one so slight, she has tremendous strength. As she trots into the street in her sweats and sneakers, he studies her; something in the way she moves clues him in that she's more than a spy and a thief: she's an assassin. Dove opens his car door, instinctively ready to follow her, and then he sees the sheriff rounding the front to enter the inn, and he rethinks his strategy. Gold, weakened and distracted, may need Dove's protection.

Wherever she is running to now, Tamara will be back. Dove needn't follow her; she will come stalking Rumplestiltskin soon enough.

**Granny's B & B, Room 8, 6:30 am**

Naked as the day he was born—and Rumple changed enough nappies to know—Bae patters from the shower, leaving a trail of water behind. He shakes his head like a dog and water drops fly from his hair. He's moving toward the bureau when he sees his father sitting on the bed, and he stops short.

Bae frowns. "Why didn't you go down with Em and Belle?" He resumes his march to the bureau, where he retrieves clothes for the day.

"I need to talk to you, son." The old man's Scottish accent—where did he acquire that, Bae wonders—thickens. "It's about Tamara."

"I know, I know, right?" Bae chuckles, drawing on his jockey shorts. "How'd a loser like me luck into a prize like that?"

Gold doesn't answer and when Bae glances at him, he's staring at his cane. A pair of jeans later and Bae's ready to listen. Socks in one hand, a shoe in the other, he plops into the rocking chair. "All right. Yeah, the tension between you and her last night was dense as London fog, but I figured it was the Emma thing. You do get it, don't you, Dad, that Emma and I are over?"

"It's not about Emma." Gold fiddles with the cane as an excuse to avoid looking Bae in the face. "That will work itself out. It's about what I learned about Tamara. . . what my magic told me."

"Aw, s—t, Dad." Bae leans back in the rocking chair and clunks his head against the headboard.

"I know you don't want to hear it. I know it's going to be difficult to believe. My magic told me she's not what she claims to be. For one thing, she's got the blood of fairies and sorcerers in her veins."

"That's ridiculous! You're telling me she's a fairy? S—t, Dad, what are you trying to do?" Bae explodes.

"And she's been handling magic. She's not a mage her—"

"I'm not gonna listen to this." Bae slams his feet onto the floor and rises, going to the bureau for a t-shirt, which he jerks over his head. "You're—you're just coming up with this crap because you know how I hate magic. Listen, Dad, I'm going to marry that girl, so you've got two choices: get used it or we're through."

Gold's hands are shaking, wrapped around the handle of his cane, but he has to finish. Bae has to be warned. "I think she killed Cora. Took Cora's magic somehow and killed her."

"Get out." Bae strides to the door and yanks it open. Then he runs his hands through his wet hair and continues, "I got you in your lie, Dad. You told me just two days ago that fairies can't reproduce, so how in the hell can Tamara be one of them, when she's lived all her life in this world? You're losing it in your complacency, old man. You used to be a much better liar. Get out."

"You have to hear this. I'm not leaving. There's a legend—"

"Aw, f—k your legends!"

"—that a certain fairy named Petronella, a godmother, grew envious of the humans she tended, and she came to long for the kind of intimacy she saw they had. She used her magic to take human form, to trick a sorcerer into her bed so she could conceive a child. She violated the laws of nature, Bae, and she was banished from her tribe and stripped of her magic and her child was taken away. I believe Tamara is the granddaughter of Petronella; it's the only explanation why she could have the blood of fairies, humans and sorcerers. Why she here's now, why she killed Cora, I don't know yet; if it's some sort of mission of justice she's been sent on by the Fates, or if it's some personal vendetta—"

Bae leans over his father, their faces inches apart. "Which part of 'get out' don't you understand? Get out before I—don't make me hit you, Dad. Get out, leave us alone, leave Henry alone, I don't ever want to see you again, case closed."

Gold hauls himself upright, depending upon his cane for the strength he doesn't have. "I don't know what she wants, but I won't let her hurt Henry or you." He makes his way slowly to the hallway, then stops and draws himself up to his full height. "Understand me, Bae. I won't let her kill anyone else." He walks away.

**Mayor's office, 6:45 am**

Anger, Regina has always found, is the best medicine. It gets her heart pounding, her blood circulating, her mind working, and it drives away sorrow, despair and that rarest of emotions, guilt. Anger leads to desire for revenge, which in turn leads to plans, and plans lead to action, where Regina is most comfortable, most powerful. Sitting in the leather swivel chair behind her desk will accomplish nothing.

So, to a plan. She will take the beans, the compass and Henry, as she and Cora had intended, but before she escapes to another realm, she will achieve justice and in so doing, remove her most dangerous threat. Killing Rumplestiltskin is damn near impossible, especially now that she has no accomplice, but she can cause the immortal one eternal misery, and that's the next best thing. Maybe better, since death is an end to pain.

Since she can't kill him, she will send him through a portal to another world, apart from his precious son. It will drive him crazy to have come so close to his goal, after centuries of tireless plotting, deal making, manipulation and yes, sacrifice, only to be once again wrenched away from Baelfire, and in the same manner. The glimpse of his son that he's had in this world will tantalize him forever, and his frustration and guilt will double when he remembers that he's also left his darling Belle behind—as Lacey.

The best idea of all: Regina will send Rumplestiltskin to. . . Wonderland. The perfection of the plan can only mean it's more than a coincidence; the Fates must be laughing their asses off at the deliciousness.

As she stares into space and visualizes each step in her new plan, she's provoked by a buzzing in her left ear. She swats, thinking the culprit is a mosquito, but the buzzing amplifies and becomes a voice: _Poor little wee one, poor little wee one_, it croons over and over.

What if he. . . didn't? The town is full of people who would have wanted to kill Cora. Oh, but who else could have? Only a mage could have taken Cora's magic. Of the four mages in Storybrooke, only one has the strength and the will to steal another's magic and then murder her. Only her mother's ex-lover, spurred on, no doubt, by the fear that Cora wished to take his power and kill him. Rumplestiltskin must be made to pay.

_Poor little wee one, poor little wee one._

**Granny's B & B Parking Lot, 6:45 am**

There's a tap at the driver's side window and Dove shoots around. How did Gold _do_ that, sneak up on Dove like that?

"Mr. Dove, I'm ready to end my stay in the hospital. Trouble is coming and we must prepare for it. I'll be taking Ms. French back to my house, where she and the Lost Boys can look out for one another. I'd like you to go inside, inform Granny that her crossbow may be required, and stay with her and Henry. Text me periodically with updates; call me when trouble arrives. And whatever you do, don't allow Ms. Petrocelli or Mr. Mendell anywhere near Henry. Whatever it takes, Mr. Dove." Gold doesn't wait for a reply; he doesn't have to.

Dove checks his Glock 22 and climbs out of the car.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

**Granny's B & B, Granny's suite 8:20 am**

Granny's face offers both a frown and a surprised grin as she hangs up her rotary-dial phone (she also has a cell, but she's installed rotary phones in the guest rooms because customers find them quaint). Mr. Dove has been here nearly two hours now and he's determined to stay at Henry's side "for the duration," he says (he peppers his speech with military expressions because his cursed memories told him he had been a Navy Seal before coming to Storybrooke). Granny has known Dove long enough to realize he takes his duty as seriously as if he were a royal guard protecting a crown prince during an attack on the castle, so she has done all she could to make her visitors comfortable, providing them breakfasts, a checker board, and access to her personal DVD collection (lots of Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan, stuff she knows Regina would never in a hundred years allow Henry to see—so of course Granny invites the boy to choose whatever he likes).

So when she hangs up from speaking to Ruby, she's only slightly troubled when she has to ask a favor of Dove. "The diner's getting really busy. Seems the New Yorkers emptied out Gold's fridge yesterday so they've come to the diner for breakfast."

She needn't ask her question. Dove assures her he and Henry will be just fine on their own for a couple of hours, and if something happens that requires Granny and Bessie (Granny's crossbow), he'll call. Granny has no doubt about it, so she grabs a clean apron from her dresser and dashes off. When this current threat is over, she thinks, she'll relish the opportunity of thanking Frank for taking over her babysitting duties—even though she knows he's here on Gold's orders. Poor Mr. Dove, rattling around all alone in that two-bedroom ranch style house of his—he's a widower, don't you know—or at least, his cursed memories had him thinking so until very recently. He eats dinner at the diner all the time, so she knows all of his favorite dishes: she'll just show up at that big old empty house some night with a sack of groceries. . . .

Dove watches her go. He recognizes the gleam in her eye; he has a pretty good idea there may be some home-cooked Yankee pot roast in his future and he doesn't mind a bit. Just one problem, though: a gent can't very well call the lady he's courting "Granny." What a buzz kill that would be, eh?

Once Granny's out the door, Henry loses interest in checkers and begins to indulge in a little intel gathering for Operation Preying Mantis. The odds are against him, but if he's sneaky enough, if he's sweet enough, he thinks he just might manage to squeeze out of Mr. Dove one or two of Mr. Gold's lesser secrets. Maybe he can even wrangle an invitation inside the Dark Lair. Heh heh heh.

**Granny's Diner 9:20 am**

Bae is idly inspecting his phone for messages as Emma, water-logged from her fourth cocoa, asks yet again, "Where the hell is she?"

Bae shrugs. He won't bother to voice an answer, since Emma didn't seem to hear him the first seventy-two times when he said "she's probably getting in some extra training." But up until nine o'clock, when they were talking heart-to-heart about Henry and catching up on each other's lives and remembering some of the good old times (ignoring certain salient facts of their criminal past), he had thought things were going really good. Too good. Made him uncomfortable, to feel so comfortable talking to Em. . . sitting with her. . .eating breakfast, laughing, making plans for the future. . . wondering if she still uses that lilac shampoo that makes her hair so silky and great-smelling. . . wondering if she still sneaks glances while she's kissing a man. . . .

With a deep sigh he tries calling Tam. No answer.

Em orders a fifth cocoa. Woman always could hold her chocolate. As Ruby adds a dusting of cinnamon, Bae suggests, "How about if we go for a walk while we wait? We've been sitting here all morning and my legs are cramped." He offers his patented dare-you-not-to-be-charmed grin. "Come on, Em, show me around the town square, huh?" He taps his phone. "When she's finished her workout, she'll call. It's not like she's going to run off without me and her car."

She's about to cave in, though she thinks it's dangerous (what, strolling around town on sunny spring morning with a former lover? Damn right it's dangerous!). He's about to cave in, to anything she might suggest: a ray of sunshine is lighting up her gold hair and her pure-as-a-mountain-stream baby blues and his knees have passed cramped and moved into the jelly stage. If she slides into that half-smile of hers, he swears his knees will leave the jelly stage and become water.

And then her phone rings. Her part of the conversation consists of three words: "Sheriff Swan" and "thanks."

Crap. He pulls up one of his phone's photos of Tam so he can remember what he is. Yeah, Tam. Sweet smile, affectionate nature, ambition, confidence, style. A woman who's going places. What's not to love there? Whereas Em—well, she's still kind drifting, isn't she? Still hesitant to get involved, but once she finally commits, she's all the way in. And once she cares about a person, it's for life, and it's with everything she is. Yeah. He can see it in her lit-up eyes. She still cares about him.

He always could read her like a picture book, and vice versa. He fiddles with a spoon so she won't see what's in his eyes, and so he doesn't notice the squint she's shooting at him as she says, "That was the ME's office. We got a homicide."

Before he can speak, her phone rings again. Her questions are succinct: "What?" "Where?" "When?" "Where are you now?" She ends with "All right, start asking around the inn to see if anyone saw him leave. Just don't knock on Room 1. That's Mary Margaret and David." She starts dialing, squinting against the sun. "Mendell snuck out while my deputy was on a bathroom break." Her dial complete, she sips her cocoa as she waits for her call to be answered. "Yeah, this is the sheriff. Who's this?. . . Okay, look, remember that little trip to New York we were gonna take tomorrow to find Hook? Yeah, well, it might be on again if we can wrap up this job here. You up for a different manhunt?" To whomever she's speaking, she gives a clinical description of Mendell and Tamara. "Got no idea where, but I'm sure they're still in the area. Here, here's a picture of Mendell, and here's one of Tamara." She emails her conversant photos of the fugitives. "Search the town, all the alleys, empty buildings, see if you can find either of them, and if you do, put them under arrest and call me. . . Yeah, I hereby deputize the whole bunch of you. Hey, where's Gold?. . .Crap on a cracker! You got his number? Call him, tell him the sheriff orders him to get his ass home before he's next on Tamara and Mendell's list—aw, hell, he won't take orders. Tell him he needs to get home to protect Belle. Now hit the streets. No shooting!"

She tosses a handful of bills onto the table and stalks over to the counter to talk to the dark-haired waitress. He drags himself from the booth, struggling to stand because his legs really have lost circulation. "Em! Wait, what are you doing?" he calls after her.

"I'm done waiting. I've got a murderer to catch."

"Wait, I'm coming with you."

"No you're not," she barks. "This is a murder investigation. You're impeding." She turns to Ruby. "I need your passkey and your nose." Then the two women start outside. "Room 8. We need something with Tamara's scent."

Bae follows despite the sheriff's command. Truth be told, he's not really sure if his intention is to protect Tam—or to protect Em.

**Gold's House 9:25 am**

Nibs hangs up. He doesn't have to explain the sheriff's message: he'd put his phone on speaker so his partners could hear every word. The twins whoop; they don't have weapons in this world, but they still have their fighting skills—and they still have a taste for battle. If they can't hunt Hook, these other fugitives are the next best thing.

Belle too has heard everything, and she urges, "Wait a minute." She runs upstairs, and when she returns five minutes later she's dressed in jeans, hiking boots and a t-shirt. The twins exchange a small smile; knowing now that she keeps clothes in this house gives them a pretty good idea of the nature of her relationship with Gold. "Lucky bastard," Twin One mutters. Belle overhears that and snaps, "I'm the lucky one. Now come on, I got something to show you."

She leads them to a corner of the attic, where a pair of steamer trunks is collecting dust. "Under the circumstances, Rumple won't mind you borrowing a few things, if you take good care of them." She flips the lids on the trunks to reveal an assortment of old-world weapons, primarily swords and bows. They start to reach in but she slams the lids shut. "Just one thing. I'm coming with you."

"Aw, Belle, do you know what Rumplestiltskin will do to us if you get hurt?" Nibs begins, and the other Lost Boys, reverting to type, complain about the fighting skills (or lack thereof) of girls.

"No Belle, no weapons." She seats herself upon one of the trunks.

The boys continue to argue against her—except for Slightly. He waits for a break in the noise, then raises a warning hand and says matter-of-factly, "We need her. She knows her way around this town. We don't. She's coming."

"But what about Rumplestiltskin?" Nibs presses.

"His orders, if I recall correctly, were for us to stay with her and protect her."

"I don't remember him saying we had to stay in the house." Tootles is the first to give ground.

"Sheriff told us to go," Curly reminds them. "Sheriff's orders trump Rumplestiltskin's orders, right?"

Nibs socks him in the arm. "In what world?"

Belle stands and starts to distribute swords and bows.

**Convent 9:40 am**

Sometimes it's kind of messy having two distinct personalities in one head, shouting at each other. Gold has passive-aggressive tendencies that have resulted, throughout his Storybrooke life, in a policy of non-engagement: he just doesn't get involved in other people's problems, unless he can see a clear opportunity for himself. Rumplestiltskin, however, ever since gaining power, held to a policy of swift and hard retaliation against any attack to his person, his property or his pride.

Where Bae is involved, any counterargument Gold may throw out is flimsy. Rumplestiltskin wins. He will launch a preemptive strike against the deceiver who is threatening his son—even though she is his son's lover.

Even though he will probably lose his son's love in the process.

Rumplestiltskin isn't sure whether Cora's attacker intended to kill her or whether the death resulted accidentally from whatever sort of device or power that had been used to drain Cora of her magic. It's clear, though, that any practitioner of magic will be a target, and living on the edge of town with a group of nuns makes the Blue Fairy the most vulnerable of the five remaining mages, especially on a Sunday morning, when they're in the middle of mass. Rumple's not too keen on exerting himself for the creature whose magic took Bae from him, but under the circumstances, he'll make an exception.

His phone vibrates and in a hasty conversation Belle delivers Emma's warning, then informs him of the mission she and the Lost Boys are undertaking. He begins to launch a plea for her to stay at the house, locked in, but she interrupts, "Is that what you're going to do? Are you coming home, like Emma suggested, and protect yourself?"

He's already lost that challenge, he realizes. "Keep your phone with you, sweetheart, and if _anything_ happens, call me. I'll be there before you can hang up."

She assures him she'll take no unnecessary chances. "Since you're not coming home, what _are_ you going to do?"

He hesitates to admit his intentions, but in the weeks of her amnesia, he learned a costly lesson: he was wrong to keep secrets from her. Not only for her sake, but for his own, he needs to confide in her. "I think Blue's likely to be the next victim, so I'm at the convent."

Her voice softens, for she knows full well how he feels about the fairies, especially Blue. She does not, however, congratulate him for putting his hatred aside for the common good; it's what she has expected of him all along, although in the past he's repeatedly failed her. "Call me if you need us. For that matter, call me if you don't need us, just so I'll know you're okay."

He chuckles a little. "I love you, Belle."

"I love you too, Rumple."

At the end of the dead-end street, well beyond curious eyes, he pauses long enough to cast a spell—upon himself. He becomes again the scales-skinned, golden-eyed imp clad in leather. . . the imp who will have no compunction against acting with extreme prejudice. His mouth a tight line, he walks up the porch to the front door and rings the bell.

**Mayor's Office 10:40 am**

Regina's exhausted. It's not just the past nine hours that have worn her down; it's a lifetime of struggle. She was born a princess, raised in comfort, gifted with magic: why has her entire life been one fight after another? Her head turns automatically toward the framed photo on the corner of her desk, one she snapped herself: Henry standing in the entranceway to his kindergarten classroom. He's waving and beaming because he's about to begin his first day of school and in another moment his mommy will walk away, leaving him, and he will be on his own in this new environment, independent, breaking the first of the apron strings that have always bound him. "My little man," she had called him that day.

Now that Cora is gone, Regina can begin the first day of her new life too. . . can't she? Or are the apron strings unbreakable?

A creaking floorboard brings her to her feet. She relaxes just a little and her mind shifts into planning gear when Hook sails in. His expression signals humbleness and embarrassment—but he's such a liar that Regina doubts if he's even capable of telling the truth any more, so she watches and listens for a hint of what he really wants from her. "Captain," she greets him, "you look like you've had a rough time." It's not sympathy she's offering; the comment comes with gloating. She does wonder how he managed to return from New York with his ship having been commandeered away from him. Did he fly, and if so, however did he manage to get past the TSA with his metal appendage? But that story will have to wait, for he swallows his pride and asks her to protect him. He starts yammering about some conspiracy between the outsiders that would endanger the whole town.

It reeks of double cross—won't Hook ever learn that when it comes to manipulation, he's strictly bush league? But it's kind of dull having no confidante, now that Cora's gone and she's burned the Belle bridge with Rumple. And Hook is such a pretty toy; he'll make an enticing distraction for a certain former dragon lady who's blocking Regina's path to a device that will make all her problems disappear.

The thick lashes fringing his blue eyes lower when he learns of Cora's passing. "It seems Providence has brought us together," he says. "I offer you a share in my revenge. When we have eliminated this immediate threat, I shall be happy to go crocodile hunting with you." To seal their partnership, he offers her the only memento of Cora that he has: an enchanted leather bracelet.

As he slides it onto her wrist, she thinks she can sense a wisp of Cora's presence. She seizes the edge of her desk as she's suddenly overcome with grief that she should hide from Hook but can't. The pirate encircles her with his arms, offering a second gift: the right to be weak for just a few minutes. She allows him to support her as a spell of dizziness overtakes her.

**Storybrooke, East Side 11 am**

The Lost Boys and the library caretaker are performing a thorough, systematic search of every alley, garage, warehouse and abandoned building in town, beginning at the far east side and moving west. Belle leads the way. Doors open to her without hesitation—everyone trusts her—and Nibs quickly admits it's a good thing she joined in. They move efficiently and tirelessly, and an interesting thing happens with each citizen they warn: the citizens express more concern for the welfare of Belle's posse than for their own safety.

Watching these Storybrookers shower Belle with affection and relief for her restoration, Slightly gains a deeper understanding of why his employer sent him here. Emma may be the product of True Love, but Belle is certainly its most ardent ambassador. He has no doubt that if this town can survive the coming invasion—for the intel he's received from his own "home office" indicates that Tamara and Greg are just the first wave—it's going to see a remade Rumplestiltskin. Who knows? Love is in bloom everywhere in Storybrooke; why should the imp be left out? With Belle pulling and Bae pushing and Henry running ahead, Rumplestiltskin may just decide to walk the path of Love.

**Granny's B & B, Granny's Suite 11:15 am**

Mr. Dove sits in a straight chair he's borrowed from Granny's kitchenette. He's reading the newspaper and glancing periodically at his phone, hoping for some word from the outside world. He's an infinitely patient man, but he would prefer to be included in the action. From messages delivered periodically by Granny, he knows that the entire town is on high alert and posses are scouring the countryside as well as the town.

He reminds himself that, as much good as he could be doing out there, he's doing just as much good in this hotel room, guarding Henry. As he watches the boy play a video game, Dove speculates about why Gold sent him to protect Henry instead of Belle or Bae. The boy must be a more tantalizing prize for Tamara, but after five hours with him, Dove has yet to determine why. Apart from his lineage and his upbringing, Henry seems an ordinary boy, a little quieter, a little lonelier than most. Maybe it's just that all the grown-ups in his life are powerful people and to get to them, Tamara and Greg might attack Henry.

Dove turns to the comics section. He's enjoying "Peanuts" when Henry suddenly drops the Game Boy, sits bolt upright and cries out, "Mom!"

Dove leaps to his feet, tossing the newspaper aside. "Henry! What's wrong?" He rushes forward, reaching out, and Henry blanches. "Mr. Dove! It's my mom; they're hurting her!" And before Dove can grab him, Henry vanishes.

Into thin air. Just vanishes. Dove stands in disbelief for a moment, then picks up his phone and calls his boss with the bad news. The phone rings a dozen times before turning over to voice mail.

Dove storms down the stairs of the inn, shouting for Henry.

**Convent 11:15 am**

Rumplestiltskin is pacing the perimeter of the convent, in a way only he can: his pacing consists of moments of spontaneous teleportation broken by minutes of walking in long, stalking steps. He's placed a barrier spell around the entire building and the nuns inside have been forewarned. To enter the convent, an intruder will have to take Rumple down first—not impossible, but very, very difficult.

"Rumplestiltskin!"

He spins, but the call isn't coming from behind him.

"Rumplestiltskin!"

In fact, it isn't coming from _outside _him. It's coming through his blood, making his skin prickle, his nose tingle and the magic burn in his fingers. For the first time in this world, he's being magically summoned. For just a second he's confused; he can't remember what to do; it's been thirty years—

"_Grampa!_"

Rumple surrenders to his magic and he's gone.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

**Storybrooke Bay, 11 am**

They've been walking forever, it seems. Bae's feet are cold, his sneakers being soaked through with dew, and his stomach informs him it's lunchtime. But he doesn't complain because he's on a mission: his mission is to prove Em wrong in her mission to take Tam down.

Emma too is running out of steam. She's had very little sleep and her nerves have been on edge ever since Hook's attack on Gold. But this is her expedition, so she sets her jaw and trudges along behind Ruby, who moves agonizingly slowly, stopping periodically to take a reminder whiff from Tamara's sweatshirt, then sniffing at bushes, trees and grass. They've wend their way from the hotel east on Main Street, past the library, past City Hall, past the pharmacy and various shops into the residential area, to the outskirts of town, and now finally seaside. And here it becomes difficult for Ruby to find a scent to track. At last she shakes her head. "Nothing. There's too much sand, too much moisture."

"From here, we depend on our eyes." Emma checks her Beretta, then studies the terrain. There are twenty warehouses, four canneries and numerous portable storage units to be searched, and of course most of them are locked, and she has neither a subpoena nor bolt cutters.

But she does have magic. She doesn't know the spells, but as she stands before the first storage unit and visualizes the lock popping open of its own accord, she finds she can make things happen, so she does.

The subpoena, however, is another matter. But if the state should ever poke their noses into Storybrooke, she suspects the lapse in proper procedure will be pretty low on their list of concerns.

Rolling the steel door open, she urges her companions to stand behind her. The building is dark, so she conjures flashlights for Bae and Ruby, and then she enters, pistol raised, and her companions follow, flashlights on.

Fifteen minutes later they emerge, clueless and discouraged. "One down, forty to go," Bae grumbles. "You're on a wild goose chase, Em. I told you: I don't have any idea who killed Cora, but it wasn't Tam." He fumbles in the pocket of his hoodie. "Let me try calling her again. I bet she's back at the hotel now, probably soaking in the tub."

Emma's face freezes and her eyes grow cold. "Call her."

Bae dials, holds the phone to his ear and waits.

"What's that?" Ruby exclaims. "That sound?"

"I don't hear—" Emma starts, but Ruby hushes her and starts to walk toward the canneries.

Bae removes the phone from his ear, but Emma seizes his wrist. "Don't hang up." She follows after Ruby.

"You people are—" And then Bae hears it too: 30 Seconds to Mars' "This is War."

Tam's ring tone.

**Storybrooke Sardines 11:02 am**

The place stinks of fish and sweat and blood—fairy/human/sorcerer blood.

His magic transports Rumplestiltskin directly into the scene of the crime, for it's there that his summoner is being held. He remains invisible while he figures out what's going on.

Henry is locked in Tamara's arms, but he's putting up a pretty good fight, stomping on her feet, biting at her hands until she smacks him. He thrashes back and forth in a vain attempt to break free, and he's shouting "Grampa!"

A snippet of a song emanates from Tamara's pocket. "Neal," she says, and as he enters the room, rolling an ECT machine on a cart, Greg Mendell curses, "Damn it, shut it off."

Taking advantage of the distraction, Henry throws his head back, striking Tamara in the nose, and she releases him to staunch the blood flowing from her nose. Henry now has the opportunity to escape, but he doesn't: he stands stock still, staring directly at Rumple. After wiping her nose with her sweatshirt sleeve, Tamara shuts off her cell phone, then seizes Henry again and shoves him into a chair. Henry doesn't budge, just stares off into space, and Tamara stands over him.

Rumplestiltskin cocks his head, pondering: he'd swear Henry can see him, although he's still invisible. As a test, he raises a cautionary finger to his lips, and Henry nods in acknowledgement.

The cannery equipment has all been shoved to one end of the building, but a hospital gurney has been wheeled in the center of the room: the Queen is strapped to it. Mendell attaches electrodes from the ECT to various parts of her body. Hook stands over her, talking to her in low tones. Mendell fiddles with dials on the machine.

Hook seems to lose interest in the proceedings—or pretends to. Something in his posture informs Rumple that the pirate may have a soft spot for the queen—but Rumple growls under his breath when Hook clarifies the reason he's walking away: "When you're interested in killing Rumplestiltskin, not torturing the Queen, find me."

Now it's Rumple's turn to squirm as Hook brushes past him, leaving the building. Rumple's hand forms a claw and he has to fight the impulse to sink his nails into the pirate's throat.

A tussle of words between Mendell and Regina brings Rumple's attention back to the center of the room. "This is how we deal with your kind," Mendell says. "Now where is my father?"

Regina simply glares, and Mendell presses a glowing button on the ECT. There's a hissing sound and the smell of burnt flesh, and Regina jerks and screams as volts of electricity course through her body.

"Mom!" Henry cries out, leaping to his feet. Tamara pushes him back into the chair.

"Sedate him," Mendell advises as he sends another shock into Regina. "It'll make it easier for us to transport him."

"Transport him?" Tamara puzzles, but she picks up a valise from the floor and rifles through it. She finds a zippered kit and opens it to remove a hypodermic needle and a vial.

As she punctures the cap on the vial with the needle, Henry tries to run, but Mendell warns him, "Stay put, kid. You're valuable to us but your mom isn't. Don't give me an excuse to crank this up to full blast." To make his point, he sends a third blast through Regina. Her screams have grown weaker and she no longer fights the restraints.

Henry sits back down, tears streaming down his face. His voice drops to a whisper, "Mom! It's going to be all right."

"Nobody told me anything about snatching a kid. Where are we taking him?" Tamara wants to know as she raises the hypo to peer at the dosage markings.

"Change of plans. All the information we've been feeding the Home Office—turns out Young Mr. Mills here is our greatest find. A unique specimen. We're to take him directly to Pan."

Tamara flashes her beautiful smile. "We're going to meet the man himself?"

"And receive his congratulations." Greg grins back before he turns to Regina. "Now, where is my father?"

Regina's eyes widen in panic and she twists her head around to look at Henry. "I won't let them take you, Henry. I promise."

Greg sends another shock into her. "A queen to the last. But you'd do better to recognize who has the power now, Your Majesty."

Tamara leans over Henry, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt in preparation for the needle.

Pan. Rumplestiltskin swallows hard. But there must be hundreds of men named Pan in the world. . . .

Tamara taps the needle to release an air bubble, then she grasps Henry's arm, wrenching it, and positioning the hypodermic over his skin. "You're a lucky boy, Henry. You're going to meet Peter Pan," she remarks—seconds before the needle flies out of her hand and the electricity in the room cuts off.

As Tamara drops to the floor, scrambling for the needle, Greg frantically presses buttons on the ECT. "What happened to the power?"

"It shifted to my side, dearie." Rumplestiltskin makes himself visible, leaning casually over the ECT. With the index finger of one hand he elevates the needle and makes it spin around and thrust itself into Greg's arm, while with the other hand he forces the gurney straps to unbuckle. Tamara, still crouching on the floor, escapes Rumple's notice as she grabs the valise and thrusts her hand inside.

"Henry, I'm sending you back to Mr. Dove. Stay put this time!"

"But I want—" Henry doesn't get to finish his complaint. In a cloud of purple smoke his grandfather transports him from the cannery.

The child-sized dosage of sedative that shoots into Greg's arm makes him woozy but isn't enough to put him under. Leaning on the cart, Mendell hauls himself to his feet.

"Get this off of me," Regina begs, indicating the leather band strapped around her wrist.

Rumple tosses some magic at the band, but nothing happens. He blinks and tosses a stronger blast of magic, and still nothing happens. "It absorbs magic or something," Regina explains.

Rumple conjures a miniature hacksaw. "We'll cut it off, then."

"You're wasting your time," Mendell says. "State-of-the-art engineering designed that band. The electronics in it are impervious to magic." His hand slides into his jacket.

Now Rumple's hackles rise. "No science can stand up to the power of imagination, boy." He thinks a moment, then conjures a pair of magnets that he holds on either side of Regina's wrist, and in a moment a whirring issues from the band, and then a puff of smoke and a popping sound. He drops the magnets and attacks the leather with his little hacksaw. "Shall I send you to the hospital?" he asks as he saws through the leather.

"And let that wolf in a lab coat put his hands all over me?" Regina wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Knowing him, he'll probably want to yank my heart out to see how it withstood those electrical—move aside, Rumple!" She shoves him and he frowns, but he moves in the direction she indicates, in time to avoid taking the bullet Mendell has just fired.

Regina glares at Mendell as Rumple sends a blast of magic at him, electrifying his pistol so that it shocks him. "You people have no idea what you're doing. You can't kill the Dark One with a gun. Didn't your Home Office tell you that?"

She prepares a softball-sized fireball and takes aim, but Rumple seizes her wrist. "Not yet, dearie. Let's drain some information out of him first. Then you can kill him." Rumple smiles over his shoulder at Mendell and casts an immobilization spell upon him.

"You can kill us but there's an entire army of people just like us who know about this place and will replace us," Mendell warns.

Distracted, neither of the mages notices Tamara crawling towards them with something that looks like an electric razor in her hand. She reaches her prey, seizes his ankle and thrust the razor against his thigh. A current of power—something much stronger than electricity, stronger even than a bolt of magic—issues from the device, impeded only slightly by the leather of Rumple's trousers.

Cold fire shoots through every nerve in Rumplestiltskin's body. He jerks, barely able to keep to his feet, as pain drives all thought and all breath from him. Blood spurts from his nose and his mouth and he feels his magic being sucked through his fingertips. His spell over Mendell breaks, and the man lunges at Regina.

Rumple's last thought is that he will die—and that is unacceptable. Rumplestiltskin feels himself leaving his body, but the Dark One takes over, clutching onto life with a superhuman ferocity. He forms his hand into a claw and closes it, and what is left of his magic lashes out, grips Tamara by the throat and strangles her.

The razor clatters to the cement floor, and Tamara follows.

Rumplestiltskin loses control of his muscles. As he collapses, his head strikes the edge of the gurney.

**Cannery Row, 11:10 am**

"Damn it, which one are they in?" Emma complains as she and her companions run towards the four canneries.

"Not that one," Bae surmises, pointing to the westernmost building, where workers in rubber boots and aprons are moving in and out. "Got to be one of these three that are closed."

Ruby sniffs the air, then shouts and points. "Hook!" The pirate is emerging from the sardine cannery.

"That one!" Emma picks up speed and Bae is close on her heels. "Take him down, Ruby!"

The waitress grins, her eyes glowing yellow. "You got it, Sheriff." In mid-stride she changes form, and with a single tremendous leap she lands upon the pirate, trapping him between her paws and her fangs.

"But don't kill him!" Emma adds as she rounds the corner of the building.

"I always knew you had a soft spot for me, Princess," Hook calls out to her. "Would you kindly ask her to stop salivating on me too?"

"No 'soft spot' about it, Hook. I just want the pleasure of killing you myself." Emma finds the entrance to the building and runs for it. "Of course, I may let Gold have a piece of you first."

Inside now, Emma stops to allow her eyes to adjust to the dim light. As she seeks her bearings, Bae comes up behind her and nudges her. "Over there," he points and whispers.

"How do you know?" Emma whispers back.

Bae looks at her in dismay. "I smell Tam's perfume."

Emma raises her Beretta.

**Dove's SUV, Main Street, 11:15 am**

"Hi, Mr. Dove!"

Dove slams on the brakes and his Yukon jerks to a stop in the middle of Main Street. Fortunately, every street in town is empty, all the residents having gone to shelter, with the exception of Belle's posse, so Dove's sudden stop causes no traffic problems. It does, however, cause the driver and his suddenly-appeared passenger a bad case of seat belt burn.

Dove slams the transmission into park. "What the hel—hello, Master Henry, how did you get here?"

"Grampa sent me. We gotta go back, Mr. Dove." Henry twists around to face the driver. "Please! To the cannery." He points east, opposite the direction Dove was heading. "They're back there, Mom and Grampa, and Tamara and that other guy are gonna kill them. They wanted to take me to Peter Pan, but Grampa sent me to you instead."

"Slow down, Master Henry." Dove swings the Yukon into a u-turn and starts for the bay. "First, I think you'd better call your other grandfather. We might need him." He tosses his cell phone onto the boy's lap. "And after that, tell me everything that happened so I'll know what we're up against."

**Storybrooke Sardines 11:33 am**

Rumplestiltskin awakens to the sound of wailing. His head pounding, he waits to open his eyes until he's managed to sort out some of the sounds: a siren, voices talking urgently. . . and sobbing.

A cool hand presses against his cheek. "Gold?" a feminine voice calls to him. "Mr. Gold?"

He can't delay any longer. He pries his eyes open to find the savior peering down at him. His head is cradled in her lap and she brushes his hair back. "An ambulance is coming. We're gonna get you to the hospital."

"Not again," he moans.

"'Fraid so. You hit your head when you fell." She glances over the rest of his body. "You're all bloody. Something burned through your pant leg, melted the leather right into your skin. Good thing your hide's so tough, huh?" She's staring at him curiously.

He raises a hand to his forehead, and in so doing he notices his black nails and scaly skin, and he reflects, "Oh, that's right; this is your first time meeting Rumplestiltskin, isn't it? I usually make a much more impressive first impression."

"Well, you're nothing like the cartoon version. Are you in pain?"

"Head hurts." He shifts in her lap, assessing the damage. "Can't feel my leg."

"When you do, it's gonna hurt like hell."

He tries to turn his head and look around, but the pain is too intense. "Where are they?"

"We got Hook," Emma says carefully. "David and Mary Margaret took him into custody. Mendell got away, but Ruby's on his trail, Belle and her posse are turnin' over every rock and the dwarves have got roadblocks up everywhere. We'll get him before nightfall."

"Tamara?"

Emma glances at something over her shoulder, then looks down on him again. "Here's the ambulance."

"What happened?" Bae's face swims into view; it's mottled red and white and streaked with dusty tears. "How did Tamara die?"

A ruckus outside is brought inside, and Emma's lap is replaced by the strong arms of EMTs, who lift Rumple onto a gurney. They keep talking to him, asking useless questions as they wheel him outside—trying to keep him conscious, he realizes. But past the nagging of the EMTs, Rumple hears his son asking again in a reed-thin voice, "How did Tamara die?"

As the EMTs lift the gurney into the ambulance, Rumple hears Regina provide the answer with an edge of smugness in her voice, "Your father killed her."

"Why?" Bae demands.

Regina chuckles. "Because he could."

"No," Rumple tries to shout. "Bae!" The ambulance doors close and the engine roars to life.

* * *

**A/N. Coming up: Regina's revenge, Rumple's last secret exposed, a (step)mother and son's heart-to-heart talk, and the destruction of Storybrooke. Thanks to everyone who has commented upon, followed, or favorited this story. Hope the conclusion gives you a thrill!**


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

**Ambulance 11:40 am**

The EMTs have attached all sorts of medical paraphernalia to him. He keeps trying to tell them none of this is necessary, especially not the trip to the hospital; they should just drop him off at his shop and he'll go into his workroom and begin to think about what to do next. For Storybrooke has a major problem on its hands, and nobody seems to realize it, a problem even bigger than Peter Pan (although that problem is pretty huge).

Regina sits in a corner of the ambulance behind him. Although she seems to have recovered, she will require an examination too. Having her behind him where he can't see her aggravates Rumple to no end.

"Why did you lie to Bae?" he hisses.

"Shh, Mr. Gold, try to calm down. Your blood pressure is elevated as it is," an EMT urges, but he ignores the advice and demands again, "Why did you lie?"

"I told him the truth." She leans forward, getting as close to his ear as she can, around the medical equipment. Her breath against his cheek is warm and her voice is velvet. "Just not all of it."

"Why?"

She sits back, pronouncing each word distinctly. "For. My. Mother."

"Isn't it obvious to you? Tamara killed her; I didn't."

She purrs. "I know."

"Then why—"

"Mr. Gold, please, try to relax."

The ambulance hits a pothole and he takes advantage of that distraction to sit up, but they push him back down—gently and respectfully, of course. "The magic will heal me," he insists. "Any minute now. . . . ."

"Of course, Mr. Gold," they agree. "But until then, humor us."

"You're wasting time. We've got a security breach I need to be working on, and enemies at the gate. A very powerful and ruthless enemy; tell them, Regina."

Regina answers coolly, "I don't care. Let Pan have Storybrooke. Let Snow and Emma and Charming die as heroes. Let Pan have Belle for his plaything and you for his welcome mat. I don't care."

"He'll kill you too."

She sniffs. "He won't touch me. I won't be here."

He gets it now. "The beans?"

"My ride home."

He would glare at her if he could, but he has to settle for glaring at the EMT who's monitoring his blood pressure. "I need to go to work, figure out how to mend the breach before he comes barreling in here. Let me get to work—"

"Sure, Mr. Gold, as soon as one of the doc's have looked you over and given the okay." The EMT pushes against his chest, urging him to lie back. He groans but allows himself to be pushed. Arguing with these people is just stealing time away from his thinking. He closes his eyes to concentrate on the breach problem.

It may have happened when the curse was broken, but maybe not: two months had passed between that time and Mendell's appearance in town. But only two days had passed since Gold had shoved Smee over the town line, and only two minutes since Gold himself had crossed the line. The breach, most likely, was caused by the memory-protection potion Gold had created.

In other words, it's his fault. If Storybrooke falls to Peter Pan—or worse, if to magic-seeking tourists and government scientists—it's Gold's fault.

He shakes his head, and his head pounds in protest. Doesn't matter whose fault it is; as the senior mage in the bunch, it's his responsibility to fix the problem anyway. Fault is irrelevant; knowing the cause is necessary only so far as it might reveal the way to a solution. Fault doesn't matter.

Except that it does.

He may be the senior resident mage, with three hundred years of study, observation and practice under his belt, but the truth is, when he created the memory-protection potion he'd been in too much of hurry and he'd ignored protocol. In his hurry to leave Storybrooke, he hadn't carried the experiment far enough. Rumplestiltskin the Master of All Knowledge Magical had screwed up. Worse, he'd known at the time he was doing it that cutting corners was a stupid thing to do.

"Damn," he whispers under his breath. Maybe there ought to be a Magic Review Board, like the one the doctors in this world have. Maybe he ought to create one, if Storybrooke survives this threat. . . put the Blue Fairy in charge of it. . . . . "Damn."

"Mr. Gold?" an EMT asks him. "Did you say something?"

"Why do you keep calling me Mr. Gold?"

The EMTs exchange worried looks. "That's who you are, aren't you?"

"Who I was," he corrects. "But as you can see, the Dark One has returned in all his glory, so you may address me as Rumplestiltskin, dearie." He wiggles his fingers threateningly. Only there's something wrong with his fingers—where are the black claws? Why is his skin soft and pink? And there's something wrong with his voice. Why isn't it high-pitched and nasal?

Regina bursts into laughter.

He sits up, and before they can push him down again he looks at his pants. They aren't leather. He wiggles his fingers again. They should be tingling now; the fingertips should be burning with summoned magic ready to be released. He focuses on his Ferragamos and orders the magic to replace them with his dragon-skin boots.

The EMTs push him back down and he allows it, his head pounding, his wounded thigh on fire. It shouldn't be this way. The magic should have healed him by now—the magic has to heal him—it's the primary law of magic: magic must survive. Even if doing so causes intense pain and permanent damage to the mage, magic will turn in on itself and heal itself. Why isn't that happening?

Why does he still have Ferragamos on his feet?

**Storybrooke Sardines 11:40 am**

Emma dials her phone and as she waits for Leroy to pick up, she watches Neal. He's cradling his fiancée's body, whispering to her as he brushes the hair back from her face. He needs help now, he needs comforting, but at the same time, the town needs protecting and Emma must be the sheriff first, a friend second. Leroy picks up and reports briefly on the progress of establishing road blocks—seems the dwarves have become very efficient at that task, having had plenty of practice blocking the roads to keep townsfolk from accidentally cross the town line and falling victim of what's being called "the Sneezy Curse." Emma asks him to send two of the dwarves here to help her search for information that might lead to finding Mendell—or learning more about Mendell's employer.

As she hangs up, she reaches out, touching Neal's shoulder. "I'm sorry." It's all she has time to say; it's all she can think to say, anyway. He glares at her: he blames her almost as much as he blames his father. But it's his way: his temper is like a supernova, exploding big before shrinking and cooling. Later, he'll be ready to listen and she'll be ready to talk this out. She dials her phone again to summon the ME's team.

**Storybrooke General, Emergency Room 11:50 am**

Gold groans as the EMTs transfer him from their gurney to an examining table and he gets a look at the doctor on duty.

"Mr. Gold," Whale greets him heartily. He's putting on his rubber gloves and he snaps the wristband of one of them as a sort of subtle way of reminding the sorcerer who's the boss in this room. "If you wanted an invitation to tonight's poker game, all you had to do was ask. You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"Son of a slime-lickin' snail," Gold mutters. "You again."

"As I recall, I hadn't released you yet. See what happens when you go sneaking out of the hospital without your doctor's permission?" Whale instructs an orderly, "He's got a leg wound. Cut his trousers."

The orderly snaps a pair of scissors. "Bermuda shorts length, or hot pants length?"

"That wound's on the thigh. Cut 'em off completely."

Gold sits up, shaking a warning finger in the orderly's face. "You're not taking my shoes!" As a familiar brunette nurse enters, he glares at her. "Leave my bloody shoes alone!"

Whale takes a look at Gold's feet. "Yeah, you're right. Those shoes are bloody." He pushes Gold back down. "Take it easy, Gold. You'll get your shoes back when I sign your release. We'll even wash them for you. Now, let's talk about how this"—he pries one of Gold's eyelids up and shines a penlight in it—"this happened. What happened to your magic?"

"Sheep-dip suckin' dung beetle," Gold mutters.

Whale chuckles. "Magic failed you, I take it. Well don't worry; science will fix what your magic can't."

**East Storybrooke 11:56 am**

Belle and the Lost Boys stand before the Rabbit Hole. She's become suddenly quiet and withdrawn, her cheeks ablaze. As Mitch unlocks the door, she stares at the street, unable to make eye contact with him. Slightly suggests quietly, "We can search here ourselves, if you'd like to wait here and rest."

"No." She raises her chin. "I'll come in."

"Your phone."

She frowns, not understanding. "What?"

"You should answer your phone." And he follows Mitch inside, leaving Belle standing on the street, perplexed—until her phone rings.

Her heart skips a beat, but the caller ID shows her it's Mary Margaret calling, not Rumple. "Hello?"

"Belle, it's Snow." Belle takes notice of which name her caller has chosen to use and wonders at the significance of the choice, particularly since the two women never met in the old world. "I. . . have some bad news."

"Go ahead."

"It's Rumplestiltskin. He's been taken to the hospital. There was a. . . he found Tamara and Greg. They were torturing Regina. He fought them and Tamara was killed; Greg got away. Rumplestiltskin was injured."

"I don't understand. His magic—" Belle struggles for words. "How could he be injured? He can't get hurt; the magic protects him."

"He hit his head, possible concussion. His leg is badly burned."

"But he can't. . . the magic. . ." The street shimmers; Belle finally realizes it's an effect of the tears now filling her eyes. She draws in a breath. "I'm on my way."

"I'll meet you there. I'm sorry, Belle."

She stares at the phone long after Snow has hung up. Slightly appears in the bar's entranceway. "Go," he urges. "We'll keep searching."

She opens and closes her mouth. Words won't come and her feet won't move.

He steps down to the street and squeezes her shoulder comfortingly. "Go on. You need Rumplestiltskin now. Your father can drive you there."

She nods and turns, blindly making her way to the sidewalk. She is knocking on her father's door when she remembers that she has had nothing to do with her father ever since the mine incident, nor he her: all that time she was in the hospital, he never once came to see her. But now is no time for grudges. The hospital is more than five miles from here and she needs a ride. As the curtain over the door's oval window moves and her father peeks out, she swallows her pride, because Rumple needs her.

Or as Slightly so strangely put it, she needs Rumple.

**Storybrooke Sardines 12:01 pm**

"Henry!" Emma stumbles as her son runs at her and grabs her waist. She hugs him back, then pushes away from him and frowns over his head at Dove, who stands in the manager's office. "You shouldn't be here. This is a crime scene. It's just. . . the dwarves haven't come with the yellow tape yet." There's a warning in her voice: "Mr. Dove. . . ." She shifts her eyes toward the canning room, hoping Dove will understand there's a dead body in there.

"I told him to," Henry says. "I had to come. I had to talk to you."

"I'm sorry, Henry. I need to work. Mendell left a lot of information behind and I need to sort through it." She turns him around and gives him a little push toward Dove. "Please, go back to town with Mr. Dove now."

"I can help." Henry turns back to her. "With the investigation."

"What?"

"I saw what happened."

"You—were here?"

He bobs his head, knowing that punishment will be forthcoming, but he has to live up to his lineage now; he has to join the ranks of heroes. "I heard my mom. She was screaming; they were hurting her, so I came."

Emma kneels to be on eye level with him. "What do you mean, you 'heard' her? You were in the hotel with Granny, weren't you?" She glances at Dove, who nods to confirm her statement.

Henry shrugs. "I heard her in my head. Her magic was blocked off; she couldn't get to it. She needed help, so I—you know—wished myself here."

"She couldn't get to her magic? What are you talking about?"

"They did something. I don't know. It was still there but she couldn't get to it. I could feel it." He sighs. "But she's okay now. She has her magic again."

Emma shakes her head. Gold is going to have to explain this to her; she has no idea what Henry's talking about. But she feels panic creeping in; she asks gently, "Henry, what did you see while you were here?"

In detail that would make any investigator proud, he recounts the events leading to his grandfather's sending him away. What she believed before, Emma now knows for fact: Greg and Tamara came here to kill mages.

She hugs him tightly. "Mr. Dove, please—" She releases him, and Dove steps forward to accept custody. "I'll take care of him, Sheriff."

"I want to go to the hospital," Henry insists. "Grampa needs me."

"No, Henry, I want you someplace safe—" Emma begins.

"Then you have to go to the hospital," Henry demands of Dove. "To protect him. Please. He killed Tamara; Greg wants to kill him." He spins back to his mother. "But it wasn't on purpose; Grampa didn't want to kill her."

"Henry, you told me just a minute ago your grandpa sent you away right after Tamara tried to sedate you. How do you know about Tamara's death?"

"I felt it. I felt what his magic did. She was killing him and he had to stop her. She was taking his magic away so she could kill him, and he stopped her." He turns his arm over and points to the veins in his wrist. "I felt it here."

"What else can you feel, Henry?" Dove asks.

The boy looks over his shoulder. "She took it all. His magic is gone."

What Gold told her before, Emma now knows for fact: Henry has magic that Regina and Rumplestiltskin could only dream of.

Which means Mendell will be after him.

**Storybrooke General, Waiting Room 12:20 pm**

Snow takes her hand as Belle drops into a Naugahyde lounge chair after yet another unsuccessful trip to the reception desk. "Still no news?"

Belle shakes her head. Her father returns from a vending machine and offers her a cup of coffee. She accepts it, even though she doesn't drink coffee. "Thank you, father."

Moe understands she's referring to more than the drink. "You're welcome." They have much to talk about, but now is not the time for grudges. Now is the time for family, even if Belle has decided the Dark One must be included in the family.

"Try not to worry," Snow urges, but she knows her words carry no weight. "His magic has amazing healing properties. I've seen it heal an arrow wound to a soldier's belly, just like that." She snaps her fingers. "Literally, just like that. Rumple snapped his fingers and the wound disappeared."

"I know," Belle smiles ruefully. "I saw it heal a bullet wound just like that."

Snow chuckles and gives her a hug.

But neither woman will say it aloud: if Rumplestiltskin's magic can heal, why is he here?

**Storybrooke General, Room 306, 12:33 pm**

Regina is resting comfortably after a thorough examination—but not by Whale. She refused to let the slimy creep put his hands on her; he'd take advantage of the opportunity to cop a feel. Just thinking about him makes her crave a long, hot bath. Well, she can have one soon. Doctor Tippet has assured her that in the morning she will be released; keeping her is just a precaution. Her magic affected her complete recovery, once Mendell's magic-inhibitor had been removed (once Rumple removed it—but she won't think about that, won't think about his rescue of her—she has no doubt he would have walked out on her the way Hook did if Mendell and Tamara had let him).

Let Pan come, hallelujah. Pan will do all the work of destroying her enemies, and with the Charmings engaged in battle, Regina will sweep in, grab Henry before anyone notices her presence, and sweep out again, off to start a new, enemy-free life. Her only regret is that she won't be here to see the end.

Meanwhile, though, she can relish the thought that in the hours they have left to live, the Charmings will be preoccupied chasing their own tails in a mad effort to find Mendell, and best of all, Rumplestiltskin, who knows what's coming, will be powerless to do anything about it. She will have to set some time aside in the next few hours to spy upon him as he frantically struggles to regain his magic and his son, tries and fails, his world unraveling before his very eyes, everything he's stood for, everything he's lived for coming undone.

Regina wonders if there is an afterlife. She's thought about it quite a lot before, in hope that she will see Daniel again. If there is such a thing as a life beyond death, she hopes Cora has a front-row seat to Pan's circus.

* * *

**A/N. Coming up: showdown with Pan; the end of Storybrooke.**


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

**Storybrooke Sardines 12:40 pm**

Emma is hacking into a laptop she found in the cannery office. She has a reasonable hunch as to the owner of the laptop, considering Storybrooke Sardines went out of business right after the curse broke, its owner having realized that he hates the smell of sardines.

Bashful and Happy have arrived to tape off the crime scene and comb it over it for evidence; the ME's team is at work in the canning room. It will be some time yet before the body is removed. Every so often Emma glances up, looking through the office window at the body of the woman who might have become Henry's stepmother.

No, Emma decides, Neal would have figured Tamara out before then.

Emma's phone rings.

"Sheriff? Nibs here. Here, look at this." A photo of a U-Haul is pushed to her. "We found it in an alley off Second and Seymour. It's locked, but it wouldn't be hard to break in, if you want us to. And I think you might want us to. Here." He pushes another photo, this one of a New York license plate.

"Wait," Emma orders. "I'll send David over, and a locksmith. Don't disturb anything."

**Storybrooke General, Room 304, 1:05 pm**

There's a commotion in the hallway: the voices of three women arguing. One of them threatens to call Security; another says, "I don't think so. I think you'll let her in because it's the right thing to do." Rumple recognizes that voice as Snow's.

"Five minutes," Belle's voice insists.

"No. . . .Wait, Miss! You can't go in there—"

"Listen, Nurse Kelly, I've fought monsters bigger than you. Stand aside or I'll show you how I defeated the yaoguai."

Rumple knows, of course, that there was nothing violent in the way Belle defeated the yaoguai, but Kelly doesn't know that.

Belle sails in and takes her rightful place at his side. "How bad is it?"

He shrugs. "Waiting for some test results. A concussion, a third-degree burn." He grins at her. "I might be walking with a limp from now on."

She chuckles, though she stares at the bruises under his eyes and the lump under the blanket that she realizes is a bandage around his leg. "At least it's your right leg," she offers.

"Will you bring me one of my canes when you come back tonight?"

"Of course. And some soup. I remember the food here tastes like cardboard."

"I was hoping for a steak—just not the New York strip. I've had enough of that city for a while."

"Then I won't bring you Manhattan chowder." Her face darkens. "What happened, Rumple?"

He looks away. This is a test of his ability to keep his vow of honesty, but who would blame him if he says he's just not up to talking about it now? "I heard Henry calling. I found him in one of the canneries: Tamara had him. Mendell had Regina strapped to a table; he was electrocuting her. He got away. I killed Tamara."

She doesn't ask why; looking at his injuries, the answer is obvious, she thinks. She strokes his hand soothingly. "Oh, Rumple, I'm sorry."

She can barely hear his reply, and she can't see his face as his hair shields it from view. "He thinks I murdered her. He thinks that with my magic I could've stopped her without killing her."

"He's wrong."

Rumple's eyes widen and he looks up at her.

"You had no choice. He'll see that, when he overcomes the shock."

His voice falls to a whisper. "Thank you, Belle, for believing in me."

"As you did for me."

They are alone and Belle has closed the door (to which Snow takes no offense; if it was Charming in that hospital bed, she'd want some alone time with him). Freed of the perceived necessity of keeping up his harsh public image (Belle has been steadily chipping away at this notion of his for a long time now, in both worlds), Gold can allow her to see the extent of his worry and his grief over losing Bae yet again to a bad decision.

He _can_ expose his heart to her—but he finds himself unable to. Vulnerability comes with a price he's never been capable of paying, so much higher for him than for other men, no matter which of his many identities he was existing in at the moment. Not even Gold in the cursed days—a human, no different from Hopper or Nolan or Clark or any Storybrooke man—was capable of expressing a full range of emotions: the feelings the town and his own pride (for the curse, for once, had nothing to do with it: the curse dictated that he would be "comfortable" but it was Rumplestiltskin then and Gold now who decided that meant using an unforgiving and unrelenting and seemingly uncaring nature to keep everyone at a distance) expected from Gold were limited to anger, distain and dry sarcasm. And three centuries of living so have left him walled in so deep he can't see the light.

But Belle is blessed with the freedom to feel. Belle, who had become incurably curious about the child Bae from the moment Rumple admitted, hiding behind his hair, "There was a son. I lost him, as I did his mother"; who, as she had pried out of his father fragments of stories about the boy and had assembled them into an entire novel of sacrifice and devotion; who had created a Baelfire in the memory of her imagination and had, in her heart, adopted him as her own, for his father's sake—Belle sinks to a corner of the hospital bed, unable to stand under the weight of her sorrow for the three of them: the father, the son, and the (step)mother-of-the-heart.

As he comforts her (that's backward, an observer would think: it's he who's lost the love of a child, not her), stroking her hair, uttering words whose sounds have more usefulness than the meanings do, her grief strikes a fissure in the fortress he's shut himself behind. The fissure becomes a crack, and through the crack the light pours in. Gold doesn't break: his walls have stood for too many years to fall so easily. But he does, in his own way, grieve with her.

He is sorry for Bae, who's lost a fiancée (though not his True Love: Gold is certain that in time, Bae would have realized that) and who, like his father, is allowing pain to direct his decision-making, and as a consequence is walking away from a family. For Gold can see how it will go, if Bae refuses contact with him: in an effort to avoid Gold, Bae's visits to Storybrooke will grow fewer and shorter; his relationship with Henry, as the boy grows closer to his grampa day by day, will become strained; even Emma, who has no particular loyalty or fondness for Gold, will become impatient with the man who dodges his own father, and doubtful of Bae's capacity for parenting when he himself can't forgive. Bit by bit, the fragile bond between Bae, Emma and Henry will stretch until it finally snaps, and once again, Henry will be fatherless (though young Nolan will fill in as the primary role model) and Bae, familyless. And all for anger.

Gold is sorry for Belle, whose relationship with her own father is strained, and who has been through an undeserved hell for thirty years and could use a happy family to belong to. She will never see the Bae Rumple remembers, and that's a shame. And perhaps hardest on her is that every time her beloved aches for his son, she will ache with him.

But more than anything else, Gold is sorry for himself. Selfishly, he allows Belle to cry on his behalf, until very slowly, he allows the light in to expose his pain.

**West Storybrooke 1:30 pm**

"Well, at least we've had a thorough tour of this quaint little seaside hamlet," Nibs quips, his hands on his hips as the twins study a street map.

"There are only four streets left," Twin One says.

"Maybe we should stop for lunch," Twin Two says.

"A fine idea," Slightly judges. "We'll split up: half of us keep searching, the other half take an hour lunch. At 2:30 we switch."

"Sounds like a plan," Nibs agrees.

"Fellas, I'm volunteering myself for first lunch," Slightly says. "I want to check on Petey."

No one can object; they've all been a bit worried about their former leader.

**Sheriff's Office 2 pm**

One of the disadvantages to living in a town that was created by an Evil Queen from another world, Emma discovers, is that it's behind the times. Although a few Storybrooke residents own computers, and a small subset of those surf the Web (using dial-up), there are no techies in town. Emma's about as techie as it gets in Storybrooke, and right now she's having no luck at all hacking into a laptop owned by people who apparently have an IT Department of their own.

She brought the laptop back to her office when its battery gave out and she couldn't find a fuse box to turn the electricity in the cannery back on. Besides, she felt out of sorts, being so far away from the main action. Now she's ensconced in her office, the door closed so that she doesn't have to listen to Hook's double entendres, and with a club sandwich in one hand and the laptop's mouse in the other, she's working her last nerve. When she goes to take a bite and gets a mouthful of mouse instead, she realizes it's time for a break. She pushes away from her desk and checks her text messages.

From David (she knows immediately it's from him because his messages are always in all caps): "19 BOXES OF ELEC. EQUIP. DONT RECOGNIZE ANY OF IT MONITORS? METERS? I DONT KNOW. WILL BRING VAN TO UR OFFICE, WILL CALL UTIL DEPT, GET ELEC ENGNR HERE TO ID THIS JUNK. ALSO 6 BOXES OF PAPER FILES & THOSE KEYCHAIN COMPUTER THINGS. ON R WAY IN."

From Mary Margaret: "Hi honey, Belle and I went to the hospital. I waited outside so Belle could have some alone time with Gold. Nurse wasn't going to let her in—not visiting hour, she said! You should've heard Belle tear her a new tell her off, Belle got to see him for a few minutes then had to let him rest. Poor man has concussion and a 3rd-degree burn on his leg and worst of all (?) his magic is gone. Where are you now? I can bring you some lunch. Love, your mother."

From Leroy: "All roads secure."

From Nibs: "Finished searching Stoker Street. No sign of any disturbance. Proceeding to Mary Shelley Ave." The Lost Boys posse had completed the downtown area then and were starting to search the west side. When this was over, Emma thinks, she owes those boys a beer.

From Dove: "Relocated to my house. More secure than the inn. Henry is welcome to stay here tonight but will need a change of clothes and toys. He's gone through my entire collection of Car & Driver already."

From Ruby: "Lost his scent just outside cannery. Think he got into a car (lots of gas fumes in area). Followed the fumes another two miles headed toward town but lost them. Will join the Lost Boys in their search. Where are they?" Emma forwards Nibs' message to her.

David bursts into the jailroom, the banker's box he's carrying bumping into the wall. He's less graceful than usual because he's tired and hungry. Emma comes out of her office and trades him half her sandwich for the box, which she sets on the deputy's desk. "Files in that one: Regina, Blue, Rumplestiltskin—Emma, they had files on you and Henry too. Photos. Page after page of notes of everything you did, what you ate, when you sleep; like they were zoologists studying lions in captivity."

Emma smiles briefly. "Thanks for making us lions and not orangutans." She adds with a confidence she truly possesses but is too tired to exude: "We'll catch him, don't worry. And Mr. Dove's got Henry in lockdown. There couldn't be a safer place. I'll sleep over there tonight. You know what Henry calls Dove's house? The Fortress of Solitude."

David's lack of reaction reminds Emma once again that Storybrooke isn't part of the world out there. Kind of a shame: David's never read a Superman comic, never seen a Batman movie, knows nothing of this world's fairytale heroes. How can David judge the world out there and make a well thought-out decision about whether to stay or whether to go back to the Enchanted Forest when he hasn't experienced this world in all its beauty, its unique brand of magic? Emma thinks she knows enough now about the EF that she can decide—and it's here she wants to raise Henry.

The notes are dated, locations noted—very research-y, Emma thinks. Very creepy, reading the minutiae of her life behind closed doors. And very scary, reading lists of the places Henry likes to play, his friends, his preferred toys. Maybe she ought to just show this file and the one about Regina to the Evil Queen, then stand back, let the Queen do what she will with Greg. Hook too, since he's conspired with Greg, though that alliance is probably pretty weak. Then Emma sighs. If she really wants to remain in this world, she needs to follow its rules, and she is, after all, the sheriff.

"At least he hasn't left town," David suggests. "Every road's blocked."

"I suppose he could've walked out, called someone to pick him up, but I think he's still here. Hiding, waiting for reinforcements. I think he's an all-for-the-mission kind of guy, not a survivor," Emma speculates.

"He may take another crack at Regina. He's been watching her a long time, knows her haunts, knows that she's alone."

"Or he might want revenge for his girlfriend."

"His what?"

"Slightly saw them together yesterday, in the hotel. Makin' out like there's no tomorrow, and with Neal just four doors down."

"Well," David sighs, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "At least they'll be easy to guard. We just move Regina into Rumplestiltskin's room, or vice versa."

Emma bursts out in a laugh. "Oh, that'll be something to watch. Roller derby without the skates."

David looks puzzled and Emma realizes that once again, he just doesn't get it. She really has to take him to New York for a vacation when all this mess is over. A football game, the subway, a hot dog, a Star Wars movie. Poor guy needs an education.

"Well, I guess I'll get over to the hospital, set up watch."

"Why don't you let Mom take this one? You need to get a hot meal, put your feet up." Emma gives him a little push toward the exit. "Take an hour for lunch, then you can come back and help me go through the contents of that U-Haul. See if we can figure out who pulls Greg's strings."

David quirks an eyebrow. "This wouldn't be because your mom's a natural diplomat and you'd rather have her than me stepping in between Gold and Regina, would it?"

"Well, Dad, if they start throwing TV remotes and lime Jell-o at each other, Mom would talk them down—you'd grab the nearest bedpan and IV pole for a shield and sword and wail on 'em like a pair of dragons."

He reddens. "You know me too well, Emma."

"Like daughter, like father."

**Granny's B & B 2 pm**

Bae opens the door to his old pal and a bag of takeout from the diner. "You haven't eaten anything today, have you?" Slightly accuses.

"I had breakfast," Bae argues. He glances at the wind-up alarm clock on the nightstand. "Eight hours ago." He stands aside, gesturing to invite Slightly in; when Slightly enters, Bae closes the door and flops down on the bed. He grabs the remote control and snaps off the Cartoon Network.

Slightly takes a can of soda and a burger from the bag, then drops it on Bae's knees. Bae digs in. Around a mouthful of French fries, he asks, "You come to lecture me or give me the old 'chin up' talk?"

"I came for lunch. Thought I'd eat in the diner in hopes of catching Ruby there, but she's still out searching." Slightly licks a drop of ketchup off his palm. "Mm, ketchup. Condiments are this world's magic. You want a lecture or a 'chin up' talk?"

"Nope. Lunch will suffice."

They eat in silence for a full fifteen minutes; their friendship goes back so far that their silences are comfortable. After crumpling his empty soda can, Bae rests against the headboard and stares at the empty TV screen. "What am I going to do with her clothes?" he says suddenly.

"Huh?"

Bae gestures to the closet. "Tam's clothes."

"Maybe there's a Salvation Army in town, a second-hand store," Slightly suggests. "Don't take them back to New York."

"She doesn't have any parents, you know. No brothers or sisters I can give her things to."

"I know."

"I'll have to call the church, cancel. . . .Make some couple happy. It's hard to get a wedding reservation for New Year's Eve."

"Her friends? You introduced me to her best friend once, the dental assistant, remember? Maybe her friends would like to have something to remember her by."

"I'm not so sure now." Bae punches a pillow to make it fit the way he wants.

"About what?"

"Her friends. I mean, I only met Alyssa. Tam talked about other friends but I never met them." He throws the crushed can into the trash. "Two points."

Slightly crushes his own can and throws it successfully into the same trash basket. "Two points."

"I met two of Tam's employees. Does that seem strange to you? We were engaged almost a year and she only introduced me to three people."

Slightly shrugs.

"I mean, check it out: we bring my dying father into town—my father the hermit—four days ago and already we met, what, twenty people?"

Slightly's mouth twitches. "Including your ex, your son, her parents, your father's girlfriend, his handyman, his poker buddies. For a hermit, he's got connections."

"Okay," Bae grunts. "Here it comes: the lecture."

"Yeah, I guess. But I've always had your back, right? I don't BS you."

"I know. You're going to start with what I'll be walking out on. How it won't just be my old man—and what a rotten deal that is, to walk out on him after he's been searching for me every minute of his life for the past two hundred years. Not even take the time to get to know him. I mean, he doesn't even look anything like I remember. He sure doesn't act like it, not the town coward or the crazy imp."

"Might be interesting to find out just how different he is now. Especially since, you know, he might not be around that much longer. Stabbed, poisoned, now he's been electrocuted, concussed—if I sold life insurance, I wouldn't sell to him."

"He didn't have to kill her!" Bae yells. "Yeah, okay, maybe he had to defend himself, but he has magic, for crap sake! He could've put a-what do you call it?-immobilization spell on her or snapped his fingers and transported her to Greenland. He didn't have to kill her. He did that because he can't control himself. He has to be stopped, and until he is, I don't want him around me or my son."

"Well, maybe you've got your wish, after all these years. Tam took his magic."

"He lost his magic?" Bae sits up a little straighter.

"Gone and never coming back. Tam had this thing: she electrocuted him with it and it took his magic. That's why she was here. Not to meet your son, not to support you. She was working with a man named Greg Mendell, and they were working for a group that claims magic is unholy and must be removed from this world—even if that means killing the practitioners, like Cora and your father."

Bae's face blackens. "That's a lie."

"I wouldn't lie to you, Petey. You know that. But I get it: you need something concrete. You're finding out some hard-to-believe crap about the woman you wanted to marry. There's a van full of evidence at the sheriff's office. It's police property now, but Emma will let you look at as much as you need to. I'd probably do the same thing, in your shoes. I know it's too much to absorb now. Give yourself time, but you gotta know the enemy's at the gates. This town has a day or two at the most, then it's every hand on deck if it's going to survive. That includes your son, Petey. This group Tam worked for? It's not what she thought it was. Not a righteous clean-up campaign. That's a ploy. It's about _accumulating_ magic, taking it away from the current owners and storing it until he's got enough to make his move. And you know what he wants, Petey: he wants this world for himself so he can get the hell out of Neverland."

"He," Bae repeats, puzzled at first. Then he catches on. "Peter Pan."

"Peter Pan the Fourteenth. And you know what that means for Pans One through Thirteen."

Bae swallows hard; he was Pan the Ninth. "If Fourteen's going to live in this world, he's got to get rid of the rest of us first."

"And find a replacement for himself to send back to Neverland. Three guesses who he's selected as Pan the Fifteenth."

"S—t," Bae hisses. "Henry."

Slightly stands and stretches. "I gotta get back to work. Grieve as long as you need to, but be clear about what you're grieving for. You were used. Greg was Tam's fiancé, not you, and Emma, your father and your son are the prizes they were after. There's a war coming. I know you, Petey: you'll stand and fight, even if you walk away after it's over." Slightly opens the door. "But you might want to get to know your father first, so if you do walk out, you'll know it was the right choice."


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

**Storybrooke, West Side 4:00 pm**

As they search the town for any sign of the fugitive, the Lost Boys are becoming reacquainted—and reunited. They talk a little about their lives in this world, their jobs, their families, their neighbors, their communities; they talk a lot about Neverland. They agree to a man that their present lives are often monotonous and burdensome, and they openly admit to a longing for adventure and battle. Then Slightly smiles slightly and asks what grade Nibs' daughter is in and whether Twin One's son is walking yet—and when the conversation lags, Slightly says, "Mortgages and boring jobs and taxes don't seem so bad to me, a price I'd be willing to pay for a loving family."

Twin Two begrudgingly admits, "Yeah, you got a point." And then he uses that as an excuse to flip open his cell phone and show off his wedding photos.

"So, fellas, who's up for going back to Neverland? Because it may be possible," Slightly asks. No one answers him. "Okay then. Well, you're going to get the chance for some battle anyway." He tells them about Pan the Fourteenth.

"He can't take Henry," Nibs objects. "That's against the rules. The Shadow can't take an unwilling kid."

Slightly shrugs. "Fourteen has never been a respecter of rules, they say. Rumor has it he's out to create a whole new order—moving his operation to this world is just the start."

"Magic won't allow that. No one's above the law. Magic will squash him like a peanut shell under an elephant's foot."

"That's why we're here," Slightly explains. "We're the elephant—us and Bae and everyone else from the Enchanted Forest."

"So we're, like, magic's law enforcement squad," Twin One grins. "I like that. Does that mean magic will grant us powers or privileges?"

"Just our native intelligence and resourcefulness. Magic has already given powers to the ones it intends to."

"Doesn't bode well," Curly speculates. "The only trained mage in the lot is the one most likely to switch sides: Regina. Emma's got power, all right, and the soul of a fighter, but with no training, what chance has she got against Fourteen's Lost Boys? Henry's just a kid and Blue's hands are practically tied by fairy law, and Rumple's a human now."

"Too bad you can't just put 'em all together into one," Twin One thinks. "Each one's, like, got what the others need."

"Precisely," Slightly says. "We got to make them believe they're the 1927 Yankees."

"Who skunked the Pirates and took the World Series," Nibs grins.

"Precisely." Slightly looks to the east, from where a cold wind is blowing. "The Pirates are coming, fellas, and this is the world series."

**Storybrooke General Room 304, 4:00 pm**

"Orders of the sheriff," Orderly One announces as Orderlies Two and Three wheel Regina's bed into Gold's hospital room.

"Now wait a minute," Gold protests. "I'm paying for a private room—"

Over his protest, Regina adds her own: "I'm not sharing a room with _him_."

"Quiet, both of you. We'll set up a screen," Orderly One interrupts. "And the Accounts office will adjust the rates accordingly. But in case you haven't noticed, there's a manhunt going on, and city resources are strained to the limit, something I'm sure you can appreciate, Mayor. So unless you want to conjure your own armed guard—"

"That's not a bad idea," Regina says, but before she can throw some magic around, a shotgun-bearing Granny ambles in and bellows, "No magic! You want police protection? Put that magic away or I'm walkin' out, gettin' me a bullhorn and climbin' to the clock tower and announce to the world, 'Regina's in room 304. Come get her!'"

Two and Three next wheel in a screen, which they place between the two beds. Then all three orderlies move on to other duties, leaving a cranky Granny planted outside the closed and locked door, and two cranky, injured mages less than two yards apart from each other.

Total silence. Each waits for the other to throw down the first insult.

Fifteen minutes pass. Regina conjures an emery board and polish to manicure her nails.

Twenty minutes pass. Gold is used to silence, but Regina, despite what she'd like think of herself, is a social being and must have interaction. Besides, she sees an opportunity for gloating here, so she begins the conversation. "So is it true you've lost your magic?"

He doesn't answer. With magic, she shoves the screen aside.

"That means I'm more powerful than you. I win!"

Gold won't make eye contact with her. She finds that disrespectful, and it robs her of some of the pleasure she feels in her victory. "Yes, Regina, you've won."

She rolls the words around in her mind, squeezing them for every ounce of satisfaction she can eke out, but she finds them dry. He is not whimpering, he is not cowering; in fact, he doesn't seem the least interested in his loss of this centuries-old fight.

There's something completely different on his mind. "Regina, I'm working on the Mendell problem and I need a book from my shop. Would you. . ." he can't bring himself to ask—to owe her a favor, however small.

"Transport it to you?" Her voice drips with poison. "Why should I do anything for you, after all the damage you've done to me and my mother?"

"Because you want to get rid of Mendell as much as I do," he snaps. "Because if we don't get rid of him, his entire damn 'Home Office' will have every one of us, including Henry, strapped down to examining tables. Because it's in your own best interests for you to help me solve this problem, Your Majesty."

He's said the magic word: _Henry_ is as powerful as _please_ used to be. "Title of the book?" The poison has dried up but an icy pride remains in her tone.

_"Manipulation of Atoms and Ions_. In the display cabinet on the east side of the store, second shelf." A moment later, the book appears in his lap. "Thank you." Gold opens the book and begins to study.

"I may have knocked over that Tiffany lamp as I was moving the book." She smiles in anticipation of his anger, but he denies her of even that pleasure.

"No matter."

Another fifteen minutes pass as he studies and Regina paints her toenails. Bored, she makes an offer that surprises them both: "Okay, what can I do to help?"

"Practice your defensive spells: shields, invisibility, cloaking. And bring _In Historiam Magica Neverland et Aliis Locis Exoticis_ from my shop, study it. We need information about Pan the Fourteenth."

She summons the book. It's in Latin and her Latin is rusty, so she conjures an English translation. The book is more than 700 pages long and unindexed. "What do you want to know about him?"

"Anything we can use against him."

With a deep sigh she begins to skim the tome.

**Sheriff's Office 4:00 pm**

Emma is studying the evidence. There's a whole lot of technical information in the paper and thumb drive files. She still hasn't been able to hack into the laptop, but that U-Haul provided her a pretty clear picture of the extent of the operations behind Mendell and Tamara.

Emma wishes she could consult with the FBI: this "Home Office" is a worldwide deal with a lot of money and a lot of brainy people behind it. They claim to intend to eradicate magic, equating it to the Black Plague, but from what she ascertained, their equipment doesn't destroy magic; it extracts it from the mage and stores it. A call to Gold confirms her suspicion: one of the laws of magic is that it can't be created or destroyed, he claims. Of course people like Mendell and Tamara who've lived their lives in a land without magic wouldn't know that. They might actually think they're engaged in a holy war.

Thank the gods for David and Snow. They may not know a lot about laws and magic, but they believe in Emma. And what she's been telling them about the Home Office's power and plans—well, Emma's plenty worried, and so her parents are too.

**Storybrooke General Room 304, 5 pm**

Granny raises her shotgun at the approaching footsteps, then lowers it again as Belle rounds the corner, carrying a whicker basket on her arm and a garment bag and a cane in her other hand. As Granny unlocks the door, Belle presses her ear against it. "I don't hear anything. Did they kill each other?"

Granny shrugs. "Maybe she cast a silence spell on him? I haven't heard a peep in almost an hour."

"That would explain him, but why's she so quiet?" Belle pushes the door just enough to peek in, then with a puzzled frown reports back to Granny: "They've removed the screen!"

"Oh lords," Granny moans. "They _did_ kill each other."

"No, they're. . . reading!"

Granny passes her shotgun to Belle so she can peek in. "Gods, you're right! Reading!" She takes the gun back. "You sure you want to go in there? There's got to be some sort of weird force at work in there."

"Maybe we need to have a talk with Whale. Perhaps he's over-sedated them." Belle adjusts the basket on her arm and steels her shoulders. "All right, then. Wish me luck." She pushes the door open and sails in.

"Belle!" Gold greets her, setting aside his book to take her face in his hands and kiss her soundly.

"I brought you some clothes and your cane. How do you feel, Rumple?" She sets the garment bag on a chair and perches on the bed beside him. The black-and-blue circles under his eyes worry her, though Whale has told her such bruising is normal with a concussion.

"Still got a headache and it's hard to concentrate, but this," he taps the book, "sufficiently distracts me. I'm trying to figure out how their gear works—and how to jam it."

Belle unpacks the basket. "Are there any other books I can bring you? Or any objects to help?" She pulls the overbed tray forward and sets it up with the meal she's brought. "Cream of mushroom soup and spiced applesauce," she announces. "Doctor says you can't have solid food yet. But that doesn't mean you can't have"—she produces a parfait cup with a flourish—"chocolate mousse."

"Thank you, Belle." Gold tucks into the meal. "I think I have some additional books about Neverland and the Pans. If you'll bring those in from the shop? And if you can find anything online about jihads against magic, or about Tamara or Greg or this 'Home Office' of theirs."

"I've been searching," she nods, her eyes bright. She's in her element: information gathering. "I've given Emma what little I found. I'll keep looking. So far, nothing promising. Even on the World Wide Web, where it's common knowledge that aliens from outer space have infiltrated the White House and human babies have been raised by packs of wild wolves, no one seems to believe that magic exists, and therefore, there is no 'Home Office.'"

As Gold sips his soup, Belle feels dark eyes upon her. She glances across the room to find Regina, a book lying open on her lap, staring at them. "Hello, Lacey. You cleaned up rather nicely, I see. Pity that it's Sunday and the bars are closed."

Gold starts to butt in, but he finds he doesn't need to. "My name is Belle. But of course you know, I'm sure, that my true memories have returned and your curse failed once again."

"One small correction, dear: it's Rumple's curse as much as it is mine."

"One of these days, Your Majesty, you and I will encounter each other again at a time when neither of us is in hospital. When that time comes, I'll be paying you back for what you've done to me—and after I've balanced the score card, I'll forgive you."

"I'd look forward to that little encounter, Ms. French. I would indeed. It's been ages since I last punched out a whore."

"Regina, so help me—" Gold starts a threat, but Belle pats his arm, assuring him she can handle her own fights.

Regina continues, "But I'm sorry to say I'll have to forgo that opportunity; I have bigger plans, and you, my dear, are so insignificant to me that I wouldn't delay those plans for the three minutes it would take me to slap you silly. As for your 'forgiveness,' you overrate yourself if you think I troubled myself to create a spell solely to attack you. The punishment for crossing the town line, it was just your own dumb luck that you fell victim to it. I intended it to keep people like those blabbermouth dwarves from announcing our presence to the magicless world out there. You see, Rumple? I really am more cautious and farsighted than you give me credit for. I also created a fail safe, just in case the outside world should ever intrude upon us: a way we can instantaneously pull the plug and leave not a trace of our presence behind."

She now has her audience's complete attention. "How?" Belle asks, and Gold adds, "Where is it?"

She defies them with throaty laugh. "Whatever would make you think I'd share that information with you? It's going to be my great pleasure, my deepest satisfaction, to watch your face crumble, Gold, when you realize I'm getting away scot-free while you and your little whore—oh, and yes, your son and all his pals—die slow, agonizing deaths, with you not even having enough magic in your fingers to conjure a bottle of aspirin." She fluffs her pillows and lies back upon them contentedly. "Of course, I'll be taking my son—your grandson—with me."

"We'll see," Gold answers between clenched teeth.

She hasn't worked out yet how she's going to watch her former townsfolk suffer yet prevent Henry from doing the same—she doesn't want the child scarred for life by images of his grandparents, his mother and his father, and all his friends, teachers and neighbors screaming and writhing in pain. Oh, well, that's one of the many advantages to magic: she can always wipe Henry's memory clean of those horrific images or force his mind to think he doesn't see what's going on before him.

Belle is asking Rumple, "Is it possible? What she's saying, can it be true?"

Gold thinks for a moment, then replies, "Technically, yes. Whether Regina was clever enough—and patient enough—to develop a fail safe, it seems doubtful."

He reaches for his phone and dials. "Let's hope that for once she's not lying, because if it's true, she may have accidentally created the way to keep this world away from Peter Pan." He sets the phone to his ear and speaks. "Ms. Swan? I'm sorry if I disturbed your dinner, but I wonder if you and your parents could come to the hospital right away. There's an urgent matter we must discuss and I'd rather not do it over the phone. . . .Yes. Thank you."

He sets the phone aside. "Well, Your Majesty! It would seem this town—this world—owes you a debt of gratitude. Assuming that you're not lying and that you didn't screw up the fail safe."

"You seem to forget, Rumple, that you're just a powerless, lame old man now, and it's the most powerful mage in the land that you're insulting. I'll let this one slide by, but don't press your luck. I'm hardly known for mercy." She winks at Rumple. "As much as I enjoy winning, I could almost feel sorry for you. The legendary Dark One, brought down to this." She waves her hand at his lime-green hospital gown. "Bet your 'visions' didn't show you you'd end up like this, did they? For old times' sake, you have my pity. Did he tell you, Ms. French, that he was my first—although hardly my only? Magic teacher, that is." She chuckles suggestively. "Oh, surely you didn't think I meant my first lover, did you? He's halfway presentable now, but in those days. . . ." She mock-shudders. "I'd rather have taken a warthog to my bed."

Now her face blackens and she bares her teeth at him. "My mother was just as repulsed as I am, though that didn't stop him from throwing her to the floor of one of his dungeons—possibly the same dungeon he kept you in; wouldn't that be a delicious irony, Ms. French? She came to him, sick and hungry and begging for a crust, and instead of granting her the hospitality of his castle, as honor and decency dictate, he dragged her into his dungeon, threw her to the stones and molested her—using his magic to prevent her from protecting herself. Molested her repeatedly, over nearly a year, and made a scullery maid of her—as he did you, did he not, Duchess? And when he grew bored with her, he threw her out, without a penny or even a warm cloak—sound familiar, Ms. French? Makes you wonder, doesn't it, how many other young women have been subjected to the exact same torture?"

"Shut up, Regina, or I'm going to ignore that you're a hospital patient and I'm going to tear that wig off your head and stuff it down your lying throat." Belle is on her feet now.

"I've never worn a wig in my life," Regina snaps back. "And everything I've said is fact. Reflect upon your own time as the Dark One's whore and you'll know I'm telling the truth."

"Is that what Cora told you or did you come to that conclusion on your own?" Gold pushes his dinner tray aside, "If it's the truth you want, if it's really the truth you want, you can have it. I can show it to you. But be prepared to be disillusioned, Regina."

"What—have you got a time machine in your little shop of horrors?"

Gold clicks his tongue. "For shame, Regina. You who are the master of mirror magic, you should know you can access my memories if I permit it. And you know what? I may be the village villain—hell, I may be the darkest Dark One to ever darken a doorway—but I'd like to get at least one lie about me off the table. So yeah, use your mirror magic and access my memories as they regard your mother."

Regina conjures a mirror and hesitates; she can't think of the spell. She realizes she's never tried this before; never stopped to investigate the truth before, just barreled ahead, acting upon assumption, innuendo, deception, lies and guesswork. He recites the spell and she enchants the mirror, carrying it to him and drawing up a chair beside his bed.

He watches her for a moment, thinking how much smaller she seems in a hospital gown and slippers, how vulnerable. He wonders if the truth will break her, if it wouldn't be wiser to let her cling to the lie Cora gave her. But he needs to clear his name for Belle's sake; though Belle still holds faith in him, there were enough grains of truth in the lie that they could someday take root. So he lays his hand on the mirror, closes his eyes and runs though memories until he gets to the right set. When the first—a bedraggled and wet young Cora standing at the Dark Castle's gate—shimmers and steadies into focus, he hands the mirror back to Regina, and Belle moves to stand behind her and watch.

_There had been a severe thunderstorm the night before, washing out roads and bridges, uprooting trees, so Nature herself when she visited at the castle windows appeared bedraggled and worn from lack of sleep. When Rumplestiltskin strolled his grounds to survey the damage, his ears, always sensitive to the siren call of a deal in the offing, were assaulted by the cry of a wet cat. The lord of the manor strode to his gate and tore it open—with magic of course: the Dark One must not be seen performing manual labor—to discover not a cat at all, but an infant, a red-faced, kicking thing that stank of milk, stale spit-up and. . . the stuff often found in the britches of an infant._

_This infant was not alone. It was cradled in the thin arms of a storm-bedraggled young woman._

_He confronted her with a growl. "The Dark One gives no alms to the poor! Begone now, find a church door for your begging."_

_The woman's chin thrust up. "I am no beggar, sir! I am a woman of magic. I have been informed that you are in need of an apprentice and I have come to offer my services."_

_Before he could slam the gate in her face, she plowed on, laying out a deal. Did she know of the compulsion that forced the Dark One to consider all serious proposals of deals? "In return for lessons of a minimum of three hours per day, along with room and board, I will serve as your lab assistant, your cook, your housekeeper and your messenger. This arrangement will begin with a one-month trial, and if we both are satisfied, it will continue indefinitely until one or both of us find it no longer beneficial."_

"_I am not in the market for an apprentice, madam. You may go." He turned on his heel, but she grasped his coattail._

"_Was I misinformed then? You have a pupil already?"_

"_No. I'm simply not interested." He removed her fingers from his clothing. "Nor is my castle a nursery for mewling fatherless infants."_

"_She is far from fatherless, sir." The woman pushed her body within breathing distance of his, glared up into his face. "I'll have you know this is the daughter of King Leopold the Third of the Frontlands."_

_Rumplestiltskin sniggered as he made the infant a mock bow. "Oh pardon me, Princess. I didn't recognize you in your royal robes." Then he twisted his head to peer at the woman sideways, for he knew that King Leopold had wed, no more than a month ago, the daughter of the King of the West Mountains. He smirked. "Then that would make you Queen Eva, wouldn't it?"_

_Had the woman lied to him or reddened in embarrassment, he would have sent her away without another word, but instead she flashed her teeth at him. "If you think that, you're a fool and unworthy of teaching me. Never mind my present title: the only title I wish for the moment is 'Apprentice to Rumplestiltskin.' You heard my terms. Do you wish to make a counteroffer?"_

_He wrinkled his nose; the infant had just added to the contents of her nappy. "I wish for you to be gone, and to take that odiferous object with you." He shut the gate and turned to walk away._

"_Wait!" she shouted. "I'll sweeten my offer."_

_He muttered, his hands working as if he were spinning thread. "Clearly you have nothing more to offer, madam—or is it 'miss'?"_

"_My body!"_

_He stopped in his tracks._

"_Rumplestiltskin, did you hear me? I said, I will offer my body along with my housekeeping services."_

_His feet inched sideways, but he resisted the urge to walk back to the gate._

"_It must be very lonely, being the Dark One!"_

_Now he was angry. He wheeled around and yanked the gate open, profanity flowing from his lips like water from a fountain._

_She ignored his cursing. "It's said no woman has ever come to this castle. It's said the Dark One has never walked with a woman on his arm, nor frequented a brothel. My services in your kitchen, your laboratory and your bed in exchange for lessons. One week's trial."_

"_Though I'm sure your experience has given you skills in all three parts of a house, I remain uninterested, miss."_

_Shifting the infant to one arm, she seized him to drive her point home—seized him not by the head or the hair, but by a part of his anatomy that only Milah had touched. "Remove your hand, woman." But it came out sounding like a question instead of the demand of a sorcerer._

"_I won't leave. You may as well let me in, because I'll remain here, driving away any new business that may come your way and sullying your reputation."_

_He chuckled. "My reputation can get no darker, dearie. And you'd be doing me a favor if you drive my gate-mongers away." He looked down at his trousers. "Your hand, miss? Remove it, please, before I cut it off."_

_In reply she squeezed. Damn it, it did feel pretty good. But he needed no half-starved infant and borderline harlot under foot. She dropped her hand and he slammed the gate._

"_I'm not leaving," she shouted after him. "We're not leaving."_

_Two days later, he let her in._

_Cora learns quickly and works hard. In the beginning he thinks she will be the one to cast the Final Curse for him; she has the talent, and she certainly has the temperament. He soon finds, however, she's too cold-blooded to be controlled._

_Cora keeps up her end of the bargain, for she understands the laws of magic and realizes her own powers can be stripped if she fails to pay her debt. She is an adequate housekeeper and a tolerable cook. Cora works hard at the lovemaking too, and accepts instruction in that regard, but to her it is no more meaningful or entertaining than scubbing the pots and pans, and so, gradually, it becomes just another job to him too, a task that must be done to fulfill the terms of the contract._

_She's a lousy mother. She leaves the baby unattended in the east wing while she's cleaning the west wing. She loses herself in the books he loans to her for study and she forgets to feed the baby. She practices her lessons into the wee hours of the morning and forgets to change diapers. When she's so absorbed, she doesn't hear the baby cry. Rumple has to storm down the winding staircase from his tower lab—he has two labs, and this one she's not allowed in, because it's where he works on the Final Curse. Complaining with every step, he runs to the baby's rescue. As the days flow into weeks, he seems to be spending as much time tending the baby as he does working on the curse, and he threatens to evict Cora. She apologizes, she takes him to bed in an effort to change his mood, but her mothering shows no improvement._

"_Throw her out, that's what I'll do," he coos, jiggling the baby on his knee. "That'll teach her. Then she'll start taking care of you, poor little wee one." But none of that is true: she won't change and he won't throw her out—because that would mean throwing the baby out. Damn his eyes, he likes the brat._

_Regina._

_Cora calls her that because when Cora has come into her full power, she will make a queen of her daughter, but Rumple calls her "Apple Cheeks." Regina smiles when he does that, but she never laughs._

"_Tending your child was never part of the bargain, dearie."_

"_I'm sorry, master. I don't mean for her to burden you. It's just that I'm working so hard."_

"_Yes, yes," he snaps. "And you have no interest in her."_

_He expects a denial of his accusation, but Cora shrugs._

"_Then give her to me," he decides on an impulse._

"_But I have plans, a great future for her—"_

"_Give her to me then until her eighteenth birthday, and then you can marry her to a blue blood." When Cora hesitates, he adds, "Give her to me and I will teach you a skill only I know."_

_And a new bargain is struck._

_Cora, swirling like a ballerina in her billowing dressing gown_, _lovely Cora, so fresh and fair, a hundred years younger than the monster she's just bedded, but a hundred years ahead of him in darkness. He is his own master, but she owns him, has bought him for the price of a few flattering words, a flirtatious toss of her luxurious hair, which she allows him to sink his ugly claws into. When he kisses her, she betrays no suggestion of revulsion; worse, she opens her mouth to him. When he lays her on his bed, she moans for him and he's caught. When he takes her the first time the spinner in him believes he's stealing her innocence, though the Dark One knows better: her hands know just where to go, her hips know just how to move, her mouth is far too wise in the ways of lovemaking. Still, he feels a twinge of guilt, which she milks; so many ways of manipulation there are, and she has mastered them all._

_Only later, as he lies ensnared in her arms, his heart pounding with hope, does he remember the warning: True Love's kiss will break the dark curse. He glances at the woman whose smooth white cheek lies against his scaly chest, whose fingers entwine with his claws, and his heart breaks because yes, she's changed him, but only on the inside. The maid in his arms has taught him the ways of her world and he will never forget the lesson: love is weakness._

_In the third year of her apprenticeship, Cora cons her way into the bed of a minor prince, one so far removed by blood and temperament from any throne that he will never rule. Which is just as well for his people, Rumple thinks; the prince is a milquetoast, and from what Cora reports—for she doesn't mind sharing the details of her affair; she feels nothing for her master and assumes he feels nothing for her—his talents in bed are equally lacking._

_But the affair provides an opportunity Cora has longed for: through this prince she can introduce Regina to court. Cora's lowly status (she passes herself off the widow of a duke of a distant realm) should exclude her as a candidate for wife, but she secures her position with a classic con: she (mis)informs the prince that she's pregnant with his child. A quick and quiet wedding is arranged._

_She announces this to Rumple as though she expects him to be happy for her. Truthfully, he doesn't care; he's grown tired of her services anyway, and it's time to seek a new apprentice, someone who can cast his curse. But then she walks out with Regina._

_His magic tosses her into his dungeon. "We had a deal!" he shouts at her. "Regina is mine!"_

"_The prince can give her the one thing you can't: a pedigree. For her sake, let her go," Cora reasons. It's a logical argument, delivered bloodlessly, but neither he nor the laws of magic will allow it to stand._

"_The debt must be paid!"_

_Cora places her hands on her hips. "What then? What will you take for Regina?"_

_The ungrateful child is crying and clutching at her mother's skirts, and he realizes he's already lost. But Cora will pay dearly, and for the rest of her life. Before she can blink Rumplestiltskin thrusts his hand into her breast and yanks out her heart. As he watches her lift Regina into the prince's carriage, he gives the heart a squeeze. Anyone else would scream in pain: Cora just climbs into the carriage and rides away._

_He locks the heart into a jewelry box and keeps it as a souvenir._


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

**A/N. ****A special shout-out to everyone who's commented and favorited "Undone," and especially to those who placed it in communities. Thank you for bringing breath to this story!**

****** The next several chapters were inspired by songs from U2's _How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb, _which is the perfect accompaniment for an action-oriented story about redemption. So as you read chapter 33, pretend you hear Bono and his own Lost-but-Found-Again Boys singing "Miracle Drug," "One Step Closer" and "A Man and a Woman." Oh, and the last few paragraphs have U2's "Beautiful Day" (_All That You Can't Leave Behind_) at heart.**

* * *

On the surface, Gold is unruffled, but beneath the blanket of his hospital bed, his leg—the unwounded one—jitters as he casts furtive glances at Belle. All sorts of excuses leap to his tongue: It was almost 200 years ago! If I had known then that I'd someday meet you, Belle, I never would have touched Cora. If I had known what she would do to you, Regina—

Oh, but the truth is, he had had a pretty good idea what Cora would do to Regina, and he not only allowed it, he fostered it, because he needed a curse caster. And though he'd never in his wildest dreams imagined he'd find someone like Belle, he had allowed himself to be snared by Cora—hell, he'd done some of the snaring himself, just to escape loneliness for a little while. So he clenches his jaw: he'll make no excuses.

If he still had magic, though, he'd be outta here.

Belle catches him looking at her, and her face relaxes into a smile. He understands then that she understands and she sees no need to excuse or forgive; she understands the emptiness of his life in those days, so soon after he'd become the Dark One, too soon not to feel human; so soon after the loss of Bae. Silently he promises her that one day, when no threat hangs over them, he will tell her the rest of his story, without reservation, without apology, without fear that she will turn away from him.

"That was you," Regina seems to be talking to herself; she stares at the mirror, which is just a mirror now, and she won't look at him. "'Poor little wee one'—that was you. You came to my nursery when I was little. The nanny thought I was crazy, fantasizing about some magic creature that came to my nursery and sang me songs when no one else was around."

Gold answers,"I checked in on you sometimes, until your wedding. After that I waited for you to summon me. Do you see now how it was between her and me? It was a huge mistake for both of us, and as soon as I met Belle and saw what love really is, I realized what Cora and I had was destructive for both of us. But at the time I thought her pain mirrored mine. My power and her ruthlessness—I thought we would be invincible together. Or at least, less alone."

Now she looks at him, giving him no room for a lie. "Did you love her?"

She will take offense; she may even explode, but he admits, "It wasn't love, Regina. I don't know what it was. A shared sickness, maybe. I didn't force or finagle your mother into anything; between us, she was the strong one, not me. But you saw it all: there _was_ one healthy, loving relationship in that sick household."

Her forehead puckers. "Me. You loved me."

He closes his eyes. "I didn't corrupt Cora. You're the one I corrupted, for my son's sake, even though I cared about you. So I suppose you're entitled to your revenge, and if being more powerful than I am gives you a sense of victory, you have it, Regina. And for that, I'm sorry."

With an annoyed wave of her hand, Regina makes the mirror disappear and the screen roll back in place, giving her a measure of privacy. If she were honest about it, she'd admit she's as pissed at herself as she is at him. Tricked again—and Regina was that last person in the worlds that Cora should've been able to fool. Desperate hearts cry out to be deceived.

But much later, when night has fallen and the hospital is quiet except for the squeaking of Tiny's sneakers as he patrols the hallway, guarding two people he doesn't trust but is willing to fight to the last breath for, just because David asked him to, Regina reflects on the memories the mirror revealed. She slides the screen away and sneaks peeks at the sleeping Gold, looking for hints of Rumplestiltskin, not the magic teacher or the co-curse -conspirator or the bitter rival, but the man who humbled himself to change the diapers of another man's baby. The man who saw that the "poor little wee one" in the cradle had a heart that mirrored his own.

**Sheriff's Office 5:15 pm**

Her jacket slung over her shoulder, her now heavily-scribbled-in notebook in one hand and her keys in the other and a stale bear claw between her teeth, Emma nods goodbye to Ruby, who's delivered supper to the prisoner and will babysit him until the meeting is over. Emma casts a wistful glance toward Hook's cell, and the pirate takes—no, steals—encouragement from that and makes a pass at her, though it's incomplete because Emma's dashing out to her Bug. It's not Hook that's whetted her appetite; it's the five-course meal from Granny's.

She's got just enough time to grab a sandwich from the hospital cafeteria—another cold, stale sandwich. Somebody owes Emma a proper supper. When this mess is over, she'll figure out who.

As she slides behind the steering wheel, she takes out her phone with the intention of calling Neal. He ought to be in on this discussion: he possesses information about Neverland and Pan that no one else here does. But then she reconsiders: he's in mourning; he has a right to privacy. She dials Slightly instead and invites the other Lost Boys to the meeting.

**Danny's Fish and Chips 5:15 pm**

The Lost Boys' dinner has just been delivered when Emma calls. "Eat fast, boys. We got a meeting at 6," Slightly instructs his companions, to the groan of his foot-sore companions. But when they hear the subject of the discussion, their complaints are cut short.

Slightly wonders if he should—and before he can finish the thought, he receives a text: INVITE BAE. He smiles as he dials. He's worked for the boss long enough to realize this may be just the excuse Petey needs to start talking to his father again. Too bad the subject of the conversation will be the potential destruction of Storybrooke.

**Granny's B & B Room 8, 5:15 pm**

Bae's phone chirps. He's on his fourth beer and he doesn't care. Instead of getting drunk he'd have taken Tam's car—maybe that's not quite legal, but who'd stop him?—and beat it out of this damn town, except her body is still here. Nobody's told him anything so he doesn't know when the ME will release the body to him. He supposes he should make funeral arrangements, but what funeral parlor is open on a Sunday afternoon? Besides, he hasn't even decided yet if he'll transport her body back to New York or bury her here. Since she has—had—no family, he has no one to consult.

Maybe he should take her back to her hometown. Maybe she would have liked that. They never talked about burial plans—hell, she was only 31 (he claims to be 35, though technically, if you include the years in Neverland—which maybe you shouldn't because no one ages there—he's 243). If he's going to bury her in her hometown, first he's going to have to remember where that is. He's sure she must have mentioned it at some point, but since he was always preoccupied with avoiding questions about his own childhood, he only half-listened when she talked about hers.

This isn't fair.

He thinks he's going to throw his empty can into the waste basket, but he throws it at the wall instead.

He's lost his fiancée and his father all in one moment. It's not fair, especially those two—he needs at least one of them to turn to right now. Not fair to find love twice and lose it both times. Not fair to lose his father twice.

Bae pulls the top on #5. This concerns him: there's only one can left and the grocery store's closed and the diner doesn't sell drinks on Sundays. It's all Rumplestiltskin's fault (Rumplestiltskin, not Gold: Bae will never get used to the curse name): this town, this murder, Milah's murder. Bae's sophisticated enough that he doesn't draw a direct connection between Tam's murder or Milah's and Rumple: he knows the real culprit is magic. The Dark One takes over and Rumple's too weak to stand up against him, and the magic allows the Dark One to do _anything_. It's the magic's fault, and the insecurity and distrust that drive Rumple to depend on the magic.

But, Bae supposes, it really doesn't matter why. It just matters what. The what was murder, two of them. No, more than that: there were the four people Rumple killed when Bae still lived with him, and no doubt, countless more since then.

A man who would kill his son's mother and fiancée is a man to be avoided at all costs. . . a man that son should make damn sure stays away from _his_ son. Bae's not so sure Emma will see it that way, but since Bae himself hasn't had a squeaky clean past, he figures there's not much chance he could win a custody battle, so he's going to have to have a long talk with Emma about Henry's future—and who should be in it.

**Storybrooke General Room 304, 5:15 pm**

Emma and her parents will be here any minute, and a text he received from her informed him she's invited the Lost Boys too. A wise decision, Gold agrees. He requires his dignity, since he no longer has power, so he picks up the suit and the cane and with Belle's shoulder to lean on he hobbles into the lav to change.

He shaves (avoiding meeting his own eyes in the mirror; he's not ready to face a magicless Rumplestiltskin) and brushes his hair, wishes for a shower but has to settle for a quick wash in the sink. With his boxers and his silk shirt on, he feels ten times better, though he recognizes that, with his magic gone, he will never feel like himself again.

With his son gone, he will never feel right again.

He wonders, as he ties his tie, if Bae's right: could he have stopped Tamara without killing her?

He sits down on the toilet to pull his trousers up to his knees, then he stands to bring them up to his waist—and finds he can't get them on. Damn his vanity; his insistence on snug-fitting trousers has come back to bite him in the butt, literally. Between the bandages and the swelling, he can't squeeze his right leg into the cloth.

Just to make sure, he orders magic to come to his fingertips. Nothing happens.

He sits down on the toilet again with a thump and a mangled sound, half frustration and half grief, escapes him. It's not really the trousers, of course: it's Bae, it's the curse, it's the pain he's caused everyone else but especially Belle, it's two centuries of exhaustive planning and struggle and ruthlessness, it's Henry and Emma and, to a lesser extent, Regina, and it's his powerlessness to fix any of it. And now he can't even tell them that all along, he'd excused the damage he'd done by planning to correct a lot of it (he didn't lie to himself sufficiently to believe he could fix all of it) just as soon as he had Bae and magic back. But he's nothing now, not a father, not a mage, and he can't even fix his damn pants.

There's a soft rap at the door. "All you all right, Rumple?"

Belle's caught him crying. If he asks for his privacy, she'll grant it. It's what he's always done, shutting her out, keeping his secrets. He can ask for his privacy and she'll back away, and nothing will change between them.

But if he asks for her help, she'll give it. He can ask for her help and something will change between them, just slightly. For the better.

He opens the door and lets her in. Once he's explained the problem, she offers immediate assistance: she'll dash to his house, pick up another pair of trousers—no, he says with a blush; all his trousers are the same size. But in the workroom of his shop he has a bag of clothes he bought at a flea market; she might find something there. She kisses his cheek and scurries off, and he slides on his suit jacket and sits down again on the toilet to wait.

Highly amused, Regina eavesdrops on the commotion. If Rumple thinks his conversations with Belle are private, he's forgotten already how easy it is for a mage to amplify her hearing. The situation with the pants strikes Her Majesty as hilarious and she allows herself to laugh heartily. It's a welcome distraction from the seriousness of a few minutes ago, the revelation of the truth about Cora and Rumple's relationship. Regina's not sure which bothers her more: the lie or the truth. But she will think it through tomorrow. Maybe.

Belle returns in ten minutes. She raps on the bathroom door and announces herself, but when she enters, her expression reports her failure. "No pants, I take it," Gold surmises.

She reaches into her coat pocket and withdraws a carefully folded, garishly colored square of cloth. "Just these. I'm sorry, Rumple."

He takes her offering and shakes it out. "Bermuda shorts."

"With green and yellow palm trees," she adds glumly. "But at least the legs are wide."

He holds the shorts against his waist: he'd need a belt to keep them up (does one even wear a belt with Bermuda shorts?). "That they are." He slides them on: maybe they won't look so bad when they're in use?

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," she says again. But she glances at the shorts drooping off his hips and her eyes crinkle and her lips quirk up.

Suddenly the shorts don't seem bad at all, not when they make her laugh like that, and he laughs too. "I'm not," he says, when he finally stops laughing. He reaches his hands out to her for a hug, and the shorts fall to the floor. After a hasty hug, he hikes them up again. Bunching the cloth in a fist, he picks up his cane and squares his shoulders. "All right, let's go discuss the future of this community."

"Somehow, it seems appropriate," she says, opening the door. The two of them walk out, heads high.

Now it's Regina's turn to laugh. Seeing those shorts in person—gracing the Dark One's knobby knees and scrawny legs—is _so_ much better than just overhearing Belle's description of them. Regina laughs as the proud couple walk past her and Belle assists Rumple in easing back into his bed. She laughs as Rumple reaches for his sheets, intending to pull them up to his waist, but then he changes his mind and leaves the sheets alone. She laughs so hard her eyes water. When her throat is sore from all the laughing, she catches her breath. "Where are the suit trousers?"

His eyes narrow. "Why?"

"A little thank-you. I haven't had a good laugh in weeks. Never mind, I'll fetch them myself." She waves a hand and the pants fly in from the lav. She makes them stop in mid-air so she can examine them, then she snaps her fingers and the cloth of the right leg stretches out another six inches. A second snap of the fingers and the slacks appear on Rumple, neatly pressed and belted.

The Bermuda shorts appear on Regina's lap. "I'll just keep these as a souvenir." She has the decency to stuff them under her pillow, though, when the Lost Boys arrive, followed by Emma, shoving the last of a hero sandwich into her mouth. After brief greetings, Emma, never one for small talk, catches the patients up on the news (no sign of Greg, but now she's thinking Neal's a potential target too, in a jealous-lover kind of way, so Dove's inviting Neal into the Fortress of Solid Steel for the night).

A few minutes later Snow and David arrive, extra chairs are bought in, and the war council begins.

David falls easily into the leadership role, directing the discussion. Snow provides the eloquent explanations to supplement his plainspoken statements; she draws information from the Boys and Gold, weaves the information into a colorful whole cloth, and blankets everyone with its reassurance. Emma provides the opposite: her sharp perception cuts through the words, summarizing and simplifying so decisions can be made efficiently.

Regina listens to all the talk. She has no stake in this discussion, since she has her own plan and, except for the compass, the means to carry it out. After the Lost Boys and Gold lay out all the information they have—from personal experience, from books, for indirect interactions and from age-old tales carried by portal-jumping travelers—the council is in complete agreement that treaty is not a viable option: Peter Pan the Fourteenth must be fought. What they can't agree upon is how. David and Emma and most of the Lost Boys believe, with a unified effort and planning, Pan can be defeated.

"This is our home," Emma declares, "people are always stronger when they fight for their home." The dubious expression on her father's face reveals his disagreement on the former point: he's made it clear that the Enchanted Forest is still his home. But since he too wants to make a stand, he won't argue where "home" is—yet, anyway.

But Gold—as his true self (though, without magic, he thinks of himself as Gold), older than all the people in this room combined, and best educated in matters of magic—urges, to David's and Emma's shock, evacuation.

"Just walk away, like cowards?" David objects. A dark look passes between the two men, the one who's just, in effect, been called a coward and the one who did the implied name calling.

"You mean, just hand the town over to Pan?" Emma adds.

"What town?" Gold challenges. "This town was fashioned out of whole cloth by a curse. It's a figment of Regina's. . . and my. . . imagination. A Tinker Toy town."

"Maybe that's how it started, but that doesn't make it any less real. We live here now. We live, we work, we build, we tear down, we go to school, we marry and give birth and die, just the same as the people in any town. That makes it real—makes it ours," Emma insists.

"She's right," Nibs says. "It's the people, not the landscape, that makes a community."

"How many of you came here of your own free will?" Gold asks, then glances at Nibs. "Except you fellas. You're just passing through."

"I did," Emma answers. "To Storybrooke, I mean; not to this world."

"Did you? Henry brought you here—and Fate, working through me, brought him here. Why did you stay? Because I rigged an election to give you a stake in this town," Rumple points out. "Everyone else was brought here by the curse. Storybrooke is as fake as the lives we lived here, until Emma broke the curse." He reaches for his cane and drags himself to his feet. He stands tall; only Belle notices the white of his knuckles clutching the cane, a reaction to the pain shooting through his ankle and his thigh. "I think you underestimate the forces Peter Pan can marshal, or overestimate your own. Magic must be fought with magic. Assess your resources: one fairy, whose conduct is tightly controlled by fairy law; one powerful mage, but entirely untrained; a child, also powerful, but also untrained—and I know you, Queen Snow and Prince David: you will not allow a child to put himself at risk. That's it, against the dozens of demons and evil pixies Pan controls, not to mention Pan himself and his supercharged Losties. Your swords and your arrows are skilled, Prince, and your courage unparalleled, but you saw yourself when you fought Cora, magic must be fought with magic. Save your lives, save your children, and leave this place."

"That will open up this entire world to Pan," David protests. "The magic came from our world; it's our fault Pan is coming, our responsibility to stop him."

"You haven't the power. You'll be slaughtered, your children will be taken as slaves, and Pan will still have this world."

Regina's amusement dissipates as she listens. _She_ has more power and magic know-how than Blue, Emma and Henry put together.

She doesn't want to be alone.

_She _has no scruples about leaving this world to Pan, no sentimentality about leaving this world, period.

She doesn't want to be alone.

_She_ has the beans.

But not the compass.

_She_ has the fail safe.

But she doesn't want to be alone.

She has no one to worry about except herself and Henry.

And how hard will it be on Henry if all his grandparents, his father, his birth-mother, his counselor, and everyone else he's ever known except Regina die in a slaughter?

He'll be (almost) alone.

Snow brings the argument to a screeching halt. "All ethical considerations aside, where do you suggest we evacuate to? We can't go back to the Enchanted Forest without the beans."

All heads turn to Regina, who sneers back. "Those beans are worthless without the compass," Emma reminds her. "And I have that."

Regina mulls it over.

"There's an additional piece of news Regina shared with us earlier," Gold says. "A fail safe, in her possession."

"Which is?"

"Sort of a reset button. It will return this area to its natural state. Everything the curse planted here will be assimilated by nature in a matter of hours."

"No trace of us," Belle muses. "No one will ever know we were here."

"Yes. And anyone who doesn't belong in this world, who wasn't born here, will be assimilated as well." Gold's face and hands are immobile as he explains the situation. Only Belle notices that inside his Ferragamos, the big toe of his right foot is twitching.

"'Assimilated'," Snow echoes. "Killed."

"'Obliterated' might be a better word. They will simply wink out of existence."

"My gods," Snow says.

"Everyone," David figures it out. "Including us, if we're still here."

"Yes, if we're still here. We can escape it if cross the town line, blend into this world—"

"Lose our memories of our real selves," Belle surmises.

"Or use the beans and the compass to return to the Enchanted Forest, triggering the fail safe as we leave."

"Destroying Storybrooke," says Emma.

"And Pan and his army." Gold pauses to allow time for this news to settle in. "I think it's obvious: we must leave." He shifts his body towards the Lost Boys. "And you gentlemen too."

Nibs asks, "But we'll be safe if go back to New York before the fail safe is activated?"

"Yes. You weren't affected by our curse; you're not limited, as we are."

Nibs shrugs. "Well then, for us there's no choice. We have families in New York."

And now Gold slips, openly revealing a crack in his emotional armor: a muscle in his jaw begins to twitch. He's thinking of Bae, who also has a life in New York—and a huge grudge now against his father.

Regina blurts, "Your count is off, by one." She explains, "Make me a deal and you'll have the beans and the fail safe. Let me in, guarantee me a place in the community and Henry's life, and I'll help you."

"To torture us later?" David snorts. "No thanks. I'm not forgetting that in the Enchanted Forest, you'll still be the Evil Queen."

"That's my deal." Regina glares at him. "Take it or leave it. What do I care?"

"I think you do, Regina," Snow says. "For Henry, at least."

"We may be jumping to conclusions," David says. "We haven't even seen Pan and his army yet. We don't even know if he's coming. Let's not get hasty."

"You saw the boxes," Emma reminds him. "Whoever he is, he's got people, he's got money, he's got high tech. I call that power, whether he's got magic or not. And most of all, he's got plans that include taking down every magician—"

"Mage," Gold corrects in a mutter.

"every mage in this world. Maybe even other worlds."

David gives them time to think, then suggests, "I don't think the few of us can make a decision like this. We need a town meeting, and if possible, give people a choice."

His point made, Gold lowers himself to the edge of his bed. It worries him that this brief verbal battle has taken so much of his energy. If Greg were to attack tonight, or worse, Pan, would Gold have anything left to fight with? He realizes he's pushed these people as far as they will go; that they are delaying the decision and risking the possibility that Pan might steal the choices away, he can do nothing about. Strike one point for monarchy: democracy moves too slowly.

As the war council breaks up for the night, Belle sits down on the bed beside him, holding his hand. He says in a low voice, "I have to ask for your help, Belle. Again."

"Of course." Her hand squeezes his.

"Bae won't answer my calls or my texts. He needs to know about all this—needs to have time to decide. I need to know what he decides."

"I'll find him," she nods.

Watching them whisper and cuddle, Regina finds her stomach churning. She's fully recovered from her injuries, so she figures she needn't stay locked up in this cramped little room until lights out, when she will require protection from vengeful Greg while she sleeps. With a flick of her wrist she transports herself to the cafeteria.

"Regardless of what the others decide. . . I don't think it's much of a choice for us, but what would you choose?"

She gives a tiny shrug of surrender. As much as he would love to offer her two viable alternatives, realistically, for her there is only one. She reaches for her phone and brings up her photo display—not photos she herself has taken, alas, but pictures she's downloaded. As the rest of war council bids her and Gold goodnight (and Emma generously includes Regina in the farewells), Belle leans against his shoulder, sharing the phone between them, slowly moving through the display: the Great Wall of China, Versailles, Buckingham Palace, Shakespeare's Globe, the Sphinx, the Taj Mahal, the Coliseum, Christ the Redeemer, the Swiss Alps, the Sistine Chapel, the Grand Canyon, Yosemite, the Yucatan, Stonehenge, Victoria Falls, the Aurora Borealis, the _Mona Lisa,_ Michelangelo's _David_, the Gutenberg Bible, New York Public Library. And the last in her collection: the Blue Marble photo.

She swallows the lump in her throat. She doesn't have to say anything: these photos answer his question. His arm goes around her. "I'm so sorry, Belle." If it were in his power, he would give her this world; he would fill her senses with all the wonder and beauty she can only imagine from these miniscule images. But she really has no choice. To cross the town line would be a blessing for Red or Frankenstein or hundreds of other Storybrooke residents, for their fairytale selves _were_ their cursed selves; but if Belle crosses the town line, she becomes Lacey.

He works his jaw furiously at the injustice of it. She who would most appreciate this world can never see it except in photographs.

"Not now, but maybe someday. Modern magic is making great advances, is it not?" she jokes. She gives him a quick peck on the cheek. "But more than all this, I want to be with you, and I want us to be with Bae and Henry. . . and my father. That's what matters." She strokes his hand as it rests on her shoulder. "If it weren't for me and Bae, what would you choose? Would you go back and be Rumplestiltskin, or stay in this world as Gold?"

He considers the question and at last answers, "Something else, I suppose. I'd like to think I've evolved past Rumplestiltskin and can move past Gold. Where I would live—as Yeats said, 'That is no country for old men.' The Enchanted Forest belongs to the princekins with their unending strength and unyielding plans." He brushes a strand of hair back from her face. "If you were by my side, I'd rather climb the Pyramid of Kukulcan as a lame old man than lord over the North Mountain lands as the immortal Dark One. But I wouldn't give up a single memory of our time in the Dark Castle together, or of my time with Bae in the years before magic, so crossing the town line is not an option for me either."

She speculates, "Emma will go. Snow and David will persuade her, and Henry will go."

Gold's mouth quirks up. "I suspect he has no choice either. Fate's got plans for the boy."

"And so the only wild card is Bae." Belle rises. "I'll talk to him tonight. Sleep well, my love."

"Sleep well, sweetheart."


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

**A/N. U2's "Original of the Species" inspired this chapter.**

* * *

**Granny's B & B Room 8, 7 pm**

"Aw crap."

Belle turns red and stutters, "I must say, that's the first time I've ever received that particular greeting. Is it a New York thing? Then, 'aw crap' to you too, Baelfire. May I come in?" Pointedly, she ignores the clothes, beer cans, dirty plates, a half-eaten pizza slice and jelly donuts with the jelly sucked out strewn all over what was, yesterday, a spotless, sunny and welcoming little room.

Bae pretends to run a hand over his stubble; he's actually testing his beer breath—it's awful, all right, and those pit stains on his t-shirt aren't making the impression he's making on his father's girlfriend any more impressive. There's something about Belle—maybe it's the clear blue eyes?—that instantly makes most people want to be, well, nice. Clean and sweet and innocent. Snow has that quality too, except you always know that at a moment's notice she could make a sword of her barbeque fork and a shield of her cookie sheet. Belle's a different kind of dangerous: those baby blues can bore through your chest and read every stain on your soul, and then make you want to drop to your knees to beg her pardon and offer her your last donut. Bae's met a few clergy like that. Yes, that's what Belle should do, if she ever gets bored with library work: become a parson. Save souls.

"Sorry," he mutters and steps aside, head hanging. His sorry covers everything from his less-than-cordial greeting to the state of his clothes (including the glob of jelly that fell onto his jeans cuff this morning that he just let dry there). He starts to pull his thoughts together. "Uhm, hey, you don't want to sit down in this mess, and I don't want to sit here worrying when you'll notice the jockey shorts I kicked under the bed. If you have something quick to tell me, let's step out in the hall."

"It may not be so quick," she admits—and now that he's brought it up, she can't help but peek under the bed.

"That's what I was afraid of. If you came here to tell me what an ass I'm being, I can save you the time: I already know." He's still hoping to squirm out of this quickly and go back to the _Golden Girls_ marathon.

Instantly, he feels rotten all over again, because she bites her lip and hangs her head too. She's not disgusted by him; she's embarrassed by her own awkwardness, disappointed in herself that her powers of persuasion aren't strong enough for this situation. And then he knows how she got through the crocodile's thick hide, because her own humbleness is thrashing at the barrier of cold anger he's locked himself behind. He has to fight the impulse to start babbling confessions from his catalog of sins, beginning with the temper tantrum he threw at the age of four when Milah made him take a bath. Which, by the way, he really needs now. . . and a toothbrush. Geesh.

"No, I'm not here for accusations. Your father"—carefully chosen words: she could have said _Rumplestiltskin_, but _your father_ is a reminder of a fact he's never been able to escape, no matter how far he's run and how many times he's changed his name. "He asked me to tell you what's going on. With the town," she adds, lest he thinks the news is personal. "We're all going to have to make a very big decision tomorrow; he wanted you to have time to think about it."

Bae's eyebrows knit: sounds like a trap. Just the kind of thing the Dark One would do: lead him to a gaping hole and demand that he decide whether to jump in. At the moment this thought occurs to him, he doesn't realize just how literally predictive it will be. He holds the door open. "All right. Let's go down to the diner and talk."

**Storybrooke General Room 304, 7pm**

Visiting hours have started. Gold straightens his tie just in case.

Dove's busy with his Henry assignment; he won't come. Belle's busy with her Bae assignment. The Lost Boys, the Charmings and Emma are gone, making their plans for tomorrow. Whale's off duty (if it weren't a Sunday night, Gold would think the good doctor off spending all the money Gold lost to him in last night's poker game). There isn't anyone else likely to visit, yet Gold finds himself listening for a key in the locked door to his room (his _and Regina's_ room, for tonight). At the least, maybe Tiny will poke his head in to say hi to the man (not mage any more, not ever again) he's guarding.

Gold smoothes his jacket. It's gotten wrinkled as he's been sitting here in the bed. Regina's been gone quite a while: maybe she found a stack of fashion magazines in the gift shop, or a candy striper to harass.

He ought to use this time to make plans too, continue his studies. He picks up _Manipulation of Atoms and Ions_. It's meant for physicists; he can't understand most of it, but he's making his best effort. Something tells him that something in here could enable him to understand how the magic-stealing device works; if he could figure that out, perhaps he could figure out how to reverse it. If he achieves that goal, maybe he can get his magic back. . . or more. It's highly unlikely he'd be able to separate his own magic from that of the other mages who've been executed with this device. An interesting thought: he could end up a super-mage.

How stupid that would be. He knows how sick—physically and mentally—a mage will become if he or she acquires magic from opposing sources. Mixing sorcerer magic with fairy magic or pixie magic is like mixing ammonia with bleach. Cora would've risked it; Rumplestiltskin, no matter how starved for magic, never will.

He picks up his phone and dashes out a text to Emma: that device, wherever Emma's keeping it, needs to be stored in isolation, lest contact with another electronic device or a chemical might interact with it. And the device needs to be locked in an iron box, where Regina's mirror magic can't see it, because if Regina should suddenly remember what she saw Tamara do to Rumple with that device, the queen will come after it. She has just enough Cora in her to be tempted by that wealth of power.

Warning sent, Gold resumes his studies. He wishes that, back in the old world, when he'd made that deal to exchange unlimited funding for instruction in reanimation, he'd made Frankenstein live up to his end of the bargain. Gold could sure use some knowledge of—gulp—science, right now.

**Sheriff's Office 7 pm**

"Crap on a cracker."

"What's that you say, my golden beauty?" Hook's laying the accent on thick. How can he keep at it, flirting hour after hour with every female over the age of 18 (Emma suspects Granny's even been his target a time or two) and being shot down every time? Doesn't the man ever quit?

Then Emma remembers his never-ending attacks on the crocodile. Her question is answered. "Shut up," she growls, throwing the last stale bear claw at him. It hits the lock on the cell and flies apart. Crap, she'll have to sweep that up—later.

It's 7 o'clock now and she's supposed to be headed over to Dove's. Mitch the bartender has arrived to guard the prisoner; the sheriff should be free to go. She needs a hug from Henry, a hot shower and an early bedtime, but now she learns she needs an iron lockbox first, and she's a bit alarmed to find that it might not have been wise for her to stick that taser thing of Tamara's in the evidence closet. She gulps the dregs of a cold cup of coffee and begins to search the office for a lockbox.

**Belle's Apartment 7:30 pm**

The diner and every other restaurant in town being closed—it is a Sunday night, after all—Belle has taken Bae back to her apartment to cook him a proper meal. She sends him to the shower first and with a soft blush offers him a change of clothes from her closet (a pair of jeans and a Polo shirt with a small paint stain). "He helped me paint my apartment a couple of months ago," she explains. She doesn't have to identify "he." The brightness in her eyes informs Bae that for Belle, there is and always will be only one "he."

Bae envies them that. For all the beautiful smiles Tam gave him, never once did he see her eyes shine the way Belle's do whenever she mentions "him." As he scrubs with her rose-scented soap, he wonders how he got here—how she got him here, when he has a shower and his own clothes just six blocks away. Must be the same way she got "him" to wear the jeans. Bae would have liked to have seen that, would like to see her work her magic on the old man.

When he comes into the kitchen, she sets a head of lettuce in his hands. "Here, you make the salad. Tomatoes and carrots are in the crisper; the bowl's in the cupboard above the sink." As they cook, she reports on the revelations from the meeting. He's silent except for the crunching of his knife as he slices carrots.

"There will be a town meeting tomorrow, 6 pm, at City Hall. We'll take a vote then to decide whether to fight or leave," she concludes.

"What does he recommend?" Bae's knife slips and a slice of carrot skitters across the chopping board and onto the counter. He tosses the slice into the garbage disposal.

She drops a package of spaghetti into a pot of boiling water and gives it a stir before she answers. She's chosen her words carefully, aware that what she says now could influence Bae's decision. Nervously she wipes her hands on her apron. "There are three hundred of us living here. Ninety-two children under the age of 16; seventy-one people over the age of sixty; twenty-one people in the hospital with various illnesses and injuries." She draws in a deep breath. "Four mages, including Emma and Henry. What would you do, Bae?"

He drops the carrots into the bowl and starts slicing tomatoes. "I'm not a good one to ask," he admits. "I have a history of running."

"Your father"—again with the _your father_—"recommends that we evacuate. He says only magic can fight magic." She takes out a frying pan and sets it on a burner, turning up the heat.

"He's right."

She's reaching into the refrigerator for a package of bacon, so she doesn't hear Bae's comment. As she chops the bacon, she adds, "He says Pan will kill all the adults and enslave the children."

"He's right," Bae says again.

She drops the bacon into the hot pan, and grease pops as the meat sizzles. She barely notices; she's busy wondering. "Bae, do you know Peter Pan?"

He gives her that pirate smile that he throws around when he wants to charm people rather than deal with them honestly. "Nobody really knows Peter Pan. He likes to catch you off-guard."

She repeats, "Bae, do you know him? Have you met him?"

Caught, he pauses in mid-tomato. "I was him, until I chose to come here and grow up."

Her face glows now, as if she's just discovered a fascinating new book in her library. She craves to follow the trail of this conversation, learn the full story, but there is more urgent work to be done. "The one who calls himself Pan now. Do you know him?"

Bae's knife makes puree out of the tomato. "Yeah. He arrived in Neverland during my administration. He's one of the reasons I decided to grow up: I couldn't rein him in. My successor vowed to keep him in check, but here we are."

"Can he be bargained with?"

"Belle, Fourteen's role models are Genghis Khan and Ivan the Terrible."

She starts chopping an onion. "Can he be defeated?"

"Not with three mages, unless one of them has access to nuclear missiles."

They fall silent as he finishes the salad and she fries the onion. Finally another idea occurs to her, "Can he be outsmarted?"

Bae is slow in answering that question. "It remains to be seen. He's so ruthless, few have tried. It makes more sense to evacuate." It's a sign of maturity in him, a mark of experience, that Bae even acknowledges this option, one that in his youth he would have labeled "cowardly." But having been a leader, responsible for the lives of small children, he holds another perspective.

She asks for the third time, "Is that how you'll vote, Bae?"

"It's not for me to say. This isn't my community," he says quickly, but then he winces. "That's a lie. My son is here. I do have a stake in this town."

"And your father is here. You have a right to vote, even if you choose to go back to New York before Pan arrives."

"Henry can come with me. And Emma—I can keep them safe from him."

"From whom?" Belle's voice chills. "From Pan—or from your father?"

Bae begins to set the table so he doesn't have to look at her, clatters the silverware so he doesn't have to speak.

Belle seizes his arm to force him around to face her. "It was self-defense, Baelfire. Your father didn't intend to kill her."

"He killed my mother." The fourteen-year-old emerges from beneath the years of experience. "He intended _that_. Reached in, grabbed her heart and crushed it like it was a clod of dirt. No self-defense there. She was trying to get away from him. She made a deal with him, in fact: her life for a magic bean. He broke his deal with her too. Did you know all that, Belle? Or did he conveniently forget to mention it to you? And do you know why he killed her? All because she told him she never loved him. What do you think of that, Belle? What do you think he'd do to you, if you ever tried to leave him?"

She turns off the skillet, withdraws a chair from the kitchen table and sits down heavily. "Sit down, Bae. Please." She doesn't know what to say to him.

But he leans on one of the other chairs instead of sitting. "You're going to try to convince me he's changed. You're going to say that was hundreds of years ago, and Tamara was just an accident, and he's just a well-mannered gentleman in a tailored suit now."

"No," she says, remembering Gold's attack upon her father.

"I tried for a century to find a reason to forgive him for killing my mother and abandoning me. I tried to convince myself it was the Dark One's fault, not my father's. But I finally had to admit to myself that he chose to be the Dark One, and when he had the chance to be free of his curse, he wouldn't take it. He's beyond forgiving."

"You're right," Belle says. "It would take a saint to forgive all the evil he's done. I don't know if you know this, Bae, but back in the old country, Regina imprisoned me, and when the curse brought me here, I was still her prisoner, trapped in a tiny room that only Regina and her minions knew existed. I was there for 28 years, and for most of those years, I was trapped in my own mind too, because the curse and the drugs that were pumped into me had me believing I was mentally ill. I'm struggling with the forgiveness question too, mostly trying to forgive Regina, but I'm also working on forgiving your father for putting me in a position where she could abduct me. It's a day-to-day thing. I suppose it's easier for me to forgive him than it is for you, but I'm asking you to consider one thing: try to see how deeply he loves.

"I first learned about you when I discovered a room full of your clothes and toys in the Dark Castle. You'd been gone more than two hundred years by then, but he'd kept your things, preserved them with magic so they wouldn't deteriorate. Not that he thought you'd someday walk back in again, still fourteen years old; he kept those things as incentive to keep searching. Most of the deals he made in those days—many of the wrongdoings—they were all to enable the curse to happen so he could come here to find you. No, that doesn't excuse him: he was damned bloody-minded about it. He knew innocent people were getting hurt, but he kept on, to get to you. Morally, what he did was reprehensible and deserves retribution; emotionally, perhaps it's understandable, when you realize it was the only way he could get here. And if you walk away, if you take Henry with you, he'll let you go, but he'll never stop looking for you.

"I've thought a lot about forgiveness, and who deserves it, and when. But what I've figured out is that the only reason for forgiveness is—forgiveness. You don't give it because the other person earned it. You give it because you can. And despite what you feel, I know you can, because I know you must see the love in him."

Bae shakes his head. "I can't. I can't forgive him."

"I understand it's a big ask, to forgive him once and for all. Forever is so monumental that it's too much to do, especially if you're carrying the weight of your grief alone. But you don't have to be alone, Bae. And if forever is too much, how about this? Forgive him just for today. Let tomorrow take care of itself. Is that possible, to forgive him for one day?"

"I don't know."

She won't press further, lest she drive him away. She stands and transfers the spaghetti to the skillet. "Would you beat four eggs, please?"

He fetches down a bowl and gets to work on the eggs. They move about the small kitchen silently until the meal is on the table, and as they sit, she pours glasses of tea.

"Smells good." Bae swirls noodles around his fork. "Tamara and I hardly ever cook. She works such long"—he stops to correct himself. "Worked such long hours. She owned a book store."

"Really?" Belle perks up. "Tell me about it. Tell me about her."

He gives her an odd look: she wants to hear about the woman her lover killed? But he starts easy, talking about the store, and slips into his memories of Tamara, and he doesn't know how it happens, but something he'll say about Tam will remind him of something about Henry or Emma, and pretty soon he's even talking about his father in the pre-Dark days. She's asking the most innocent questions in her shy way, and she's adding stories of her own, and they even find a few funny tales to tell. When he leaves, his belly full, his heart warm, he's smiling and so is she, and she hasn't mentioned it again, but walking back to the inn to pick up a change of clothes before heading over to Dove's, he finds himself remembering, _Is that possible, forgive him for one day?_

**Storybrooke General 7:30 pm**

"Hi, Grampa!"

Gold raises his head from _Manipulation_ and glances at the door—it's still closed. Then he looks to his left, where Henry, and behind him, Dove, stand. He frowns slightly. "Good evening, Mr. Dove. Henry, did you use magic to come here?"

"There wasn't time to drive." Henry plops onto the bed, just barely missing landing on Gold's knee, but that's okay: Henry's on his good side. "Emma's taking a bath and Neal's coming over soon as he'd done talking to"—he pauses, not sure what identifier to use, _grandma_ being incorrect on so many levels; he settles for just her name—"Belle. So we've only got a minute but I wanted to see how you're doing and you don't have Skype on your phone yet. You should download the app. Want me to do it for you?"

"Later, Henry." Gold inspects the fingers on one of Henry's hands. "How do your hands feel? Are they sore? Hot?"

"They tingle."

"If your hands ever start to hurt, that means it's time for you to rest the magic, okay? How does your head feel?"

"Okay. How does yours feel?" Henry lays his palm against Gold's forehead as if checking for a fever. "You have black eyes. Did somebody punch you?"

Gold chuckles. "It's a symptom of the concussion. I'm better. I'll leave here tomorrow."

Henry squints. "That's not what Emma said the doctor said."

Gold winks, despite the black eyes. "That's what _I_ say. I presume your magic brought Mr. Dove here too?" At Henry's nod, he continues, "You have remarkable abilities, my boy, and I know you're itching to test them, but you really mustn't experiment on your own. Especially not when it involves other people. You could have hurt Mr. Dove."

"He wouldn't let me leave without him."

"That's true, sir," Dove agrees. "Master Henry sufficiently proved to me his ability to transport me safely—he moved my refrigerator into the back yard."

"Indeed? Henry, do we have a deal? You won't practice magic without supervision, and I'll give you lessons." Gold offer a handshake.

"We have a deal." Henry wriggles, feeling very adult.

"Henry. . .when Regina needed help, how did you know that?" Gold's head has started to pound again; he wishes he could conjure some ibuprofen.

"I heard her crying." He taps his head. "In my mind. And I knew she couldn't use her magic. I could feel it." He runs a finger along the veins in his wrist. "Here. It was like—it felt like she was trying to move her hand but it wouldn't move, and her hands wouldn't get warm. You know how, when you're getting ready to use your magic, your hands get warm and your fingers feel like they're buzzing?"

Gold nods. "You—are you saying you can feel it when Regina uses her magic?"

"Yeah. My veins get hot. And then I can see what she's telling the magic to do. In my mind, I can see it." He points to his wrist again. "I feel it here first, that somebody's talking to their magic, and then I see what they're doing in my mind."

"Describe it for me. Regina used magic tonight, several times. Tell me about one of those times."

Henry screws up his face in concentration. "She thought about the cafeteria, and she went there. She didn't like their coffee, so she made some with her coffee machine at home and brought it here. With magic."

Gold exchanges glances with Dove: the latter is wondering if Henry is fantasizing, but the amazement in the former's eyes answers that question.

As the boy continues to talk, a bottle of aspirin appears in his hand and gives it to Gold, who accepts it absentmindedly. "And she did something with a mirror—she saw things, things that you were thinking. I don't understand that." Henry suddenly giggles. "And the shorts! She took your shorts off and made your pants bigger."

"That's enough, Henry; that's enough examples," Gold interrupts. A hasty sideways glance assures him Dove is not laughing: the handyman's features remain fixedly curious about Henry's abilities, but uninterested in learning any more about Gold's shorts. "What happens when you see these images? Is it like watching television, or like dreaming?"

"Like dreaming, I guess, because I know what she's going to do when she thinks it, and how she's going to do it."

"Indeed," Gold mutters, opening the aspirin and swallowing two. "Is it uncomfortable?"

"No. I can do it with Emma. She hardly ever uses magic, but when she does I can see it in my head." He leans forward conspiratorially. "Like, she couldn't find one of those iron boxes you told her to find, so she magicked it."

"_Conjured_," Gold corrects. "_Magic_ is a noun; _conjure_ is the verb."

"I can do it with you, too, but," Henry's voice takes on a note of sadness, "I don't feel your magic in my wrist any more. But when you think about doing magic, I can see it."

"My gods," Gold says softly. Then his hand closes around the aspirin bottle. "Is that why you conjured this for me?"

"Yeah. Is that okay?" A typical kid despite his unique powers, the boy's worried he's screwed up.

"It's okay."

Henry snaps his fingers in victory and practically shouts, "Right now! You're telling your magic to open that window over there." He sobers as he realizes, "I'm sorry your magic is gone, Grampa. That must be the pits."

"We have much to talk about, young man," Gold concludes. "But shouldn't you be getting back to Mr. Dove's house now?"

"Okay." Henry slides off the bed and moves to stand beside Dove.

"One moment, Henry," Gold wiggles his finger and Henry returns to his side. "Thank you for the aspirin." Gold leans over and kisses the boy's forehead. If Gold still had his magic, this wouldn't be just a goodnight kiss from an elder to a child; it would be the conveyance of a blessing, from a master mage to his eventual replacement from the next generation. But he has no magic to transfer the blessing, so it must be a simple grandpa-grandchild kiss.

Henry's pleased with it anyway. Probably more so.


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

**Dove's house 7:45 pm**

Bae allows himself to notice that her rosy skin glows and her hair, now loose about her shoulders, swings as Emma walks from the bathroom into the kitchen, where Henry is making preparations for their evening ritual: a cup of cinnamon-cocoa and a light chat before bed. She kisses the top of his head as she accepts her cup ("World's Greatest Mom," it says; his Mother's Day gift to her). Around a yawn, she admits, "I don't think I can last for a full talk tonight. I didn't get any sleep last night and I'm bushed."

"It's okay," Henry says, removing two additional cups from the microwave. Looks like he's going to escape making a confession of sneaking out of the house a little while ago, though he knows he'll have to tell her eventually. Hiding his wrongdoings, he's learned, is a kind of lying, and he and Emma have promised to be truthful with each other.

Henry carries the other two cups to the kitchen table, and only then does she notice Bae sitting at its foot. She starts, then mumbles a greeting. "Where's Mr. Dove?"

"Out walking the grounds, he said. Just making sure we're alone."

Emma smiles wryly. "Out setting traps, most likely. Don't go wandering outside tonight."

"You don't have to tell me," Henry says.

"I was talking to your father."

Bae is holding his head in his hands, the steam from the cocoa wafting up into his nose. "No midnight rendezvous for me either."

She seats herself at the head of the table and Henry sits in between, his head ping-ponging from one parent to the other. He's watching for signs of attraction between them, like the quirky smiles that pass between Gran and Gramps, or the little hand-brushings he's seen between Belle and Grampa, but Emma and Bae just sit there, heads hanging, occasionally sipping their cocoa. If they weren't so tired, Henry's sure, there would be jokes and sideways glances, and after a few days of that, those smiles and touches, and after a few days of that, hugs and kisses and wedding invitations.

It will take scheming and manipulation, but Henry will maneuver his parents into position, after they've had a good night's sleep. Operation Love Birds, he'll call it. Maybe Gran, Belle and Grampa will help. Henry's not so sure about Gramps, though; he doesn't seem to like Neal. Gramps will come around when he sees how happy Neal makes Emma.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes and Emma stands, motions to Henry. "Bedtime."

Now Bae comes alive. "Would you mind if I tucked him in?"

"_I_ don't mind!" Henry practically shouts. He tugs at Bae's sleeve. "Anyway, you're bunking with me. Come on, we're at the top of the stairs."

Bae glances back over his shoulder. "Mr. Dove's giving up both his bedrooms for us? Where's he going to sleep?"

Emma grins wryly. "I don't think he does."

Bae's gone nearly a half-hour. When he returns to his cold cocoa, Emma's still at the table, cheek pressed to her arms. He wonders if she's asleep; if she is, should he leave her there or wake her so she can go to bed? He leans over her to determine her wakefulness. She looks innocent and vulnerable when she's not glaring at anyone. He brushes a stray lock of hair out of her mouth and she wakes. "Sorry," they both say at the same time.

Her hair is mussed, reminding him of how she looked in the mornings, in the days when they were living together. He dares to sit down at her right; when she fails to glare at him, he pats her arm comfortingly. "You should turn in."

"There's something I need to tell you."

"If it's about the town meeting, Belle told me. Since I know Pan, she asked me to be there." He watches her closely when he adds, "And since I have some family here."

"Then there are two somethings I need to tell you." Emma plays with a spoon so she doesn't have to meet his gaze. "We found a U-Haul; the rental papers were signed by Tamara."

"U-Haul," he echoes. "What would she need a U-Haul for? We were only going to be here for the weekend."

"Electronic equipment, laptops and boxes of files." Now she has no choice but to look at him. "There was a man who came into town about two weeks ago. He wrecked his car at the town line, spent most of his time here in the hospital. His name is Greg Mendell. He and Tamara were. . . involved."

"So I've heard," he says dryly. "I don't believe it."

"I don't know what their personal relationship is—was—but they were working together. Their job—I wish I didn't have to say this, but they came here to destroy magic and kill everyone who's got it, Regina and Blue and your father. . . and me and Henry."

"Heard that too."

"Do you believe it?"

He's a long time in answering, but finally nods. "I guess I don't have a choice."

"The evidence is in that U-Haul. I'm sorry, Neal."

"Me too." He empties the rest of his cocoa into the sink and rinses out the cup. "You done with yours?" When she hands him her cup, he washes it too. "Don't want to leave a mess for Mr. Dove. He's a nice guy."

"The best. Henry's safe with him." She glances at him out of the corner of her eye. "Neal, we ought to talk about going back."

"Going back where?"

"When this all comes down, my parents are going back. They have to; it's their kingdom. People need leadership, and that's what Snow and David do." She bites the skin off the side of her thumbnail; he remembers that means she's undecided.

"You and Henry could come with me to New York." He starts talking fast so she can't slip in an objection. "You _should_ come with me to New York. You don't belong in the Enchanted Forest; this is your world. I hear you visited there recently and had a miserable time."

"Yeah," she sniffs. "'Visited' is the wrong word. 'Fell in' is more like it. After a wraith grabbed my ankle. And you're right; the Enchanted Forest sucked. For one thing, it's a wreck. Buildings demolished, crops and livestock destroyed. It'll take years to make it livable. But Snow and David are going back, so. . . and Henry wants to go too."

"Henry's eleven years old," Bae points out. "Every eleven-year-old boy wants an excuse to skip school."

"Oh, he's going to school, all right, no matter where he is. Snow was a teacher here. She says the first building they erect will be a schoolhouse."

"More like the second," he suggests. "The first will have to be a hospital. Unclean water, unfamiliar plant life, wild animals—"

"Ogres. Heart-stealing witches. Roaming bands of robbers. You don't have to convince me, Neal. I don't want to go back, and I don't want Henry there either. I've tried to tell him it's nothing like he imagines. Nothing like the illustrations in his storybook." She sighs and folds her arms—self-protectively, not defiantly. "But my parents are going, and they're my family. If you knew how long I waited to meet them—"

"I do know."

"I don't want Henry to be separated from his grandparents. It's not like moving to Florida, you know. We can't just hop a plane and visit on weekends. He needs them. I need them. They need us."

"Seems perfectly logical," he agrees. "And hey, I'm sure David will bring his kingdom into the modern age. A few years and you'll have electricity, sanitation, maybe even cars. But here, you already have all that, plus great schools, universities, museums, symphonies, art, ballet—"

"Rock 'n' roll, tv, movies. I know, I know," she moans. "But Snow and David are going back, and they're my family."

"And Henry is mine," he insists. "You agreed, remember? He needs me."

"And you're not going back."

"The Enchanted Forest might've been fine for royalty like your family, but for most of the people who lived there, it was a hellhole. No running water, no toilets, no refrigeration—"

"I know, I know. And I want you to be in Henry's life too. So what do we do, Neal? How do we keep this family together?"

"Come to New York with me. If they see your mind is made up, your parents will change their minds."

"You don't know my parents. They're heroes first, parents second." She shifts in her chair. "What about your family? Your father—is he going back? I don't think he could adjust to New York. If you could've seen how nervous he was in the city—"

"New York and Boston are the exception. Little towns like Storybrooke are the rule. He could stay here."

"Could? Does that mean you don't know what he's going to do?"

"I haven't asked. His decision has no bearing on mine."

Emma snorts. "Like hell. I know you, Neal: you may hate him for the rest of your life, you may keep running away from him, but he'll always be your father."

"Doesn't mean I want to live in the same world as him."

She falls silent except for her fingers tapping rapidly on the table. She's pissed, and he's expecting a lecture about how important family is and how stupid he's being. But gradually her fingers stop tapping and she sighs wearily. "You know, I can't blame you. I've had, what, about two years of Gold, and I've seen what a conniving son of a bitch _he_ is. From what I've heard, Rumplestiltskin was a thousand times worse. So I don't blame you. I keep a close eye on Henry whenever Gold's around."

"He won't hurt Henry," Bae interrupts. "He's an asshole, and he killed my mother and my girlfriend, and he deserves to rot in hell alone. But he won't hurt Henry."

"His influence will."

"Well, that's what Henry's got David and Snow for. Balance." Bae realizes he's coming across as hypocritical, or the least, confused. "I think. . . I think he loves Henry—"

"That doesn't mean he won't hurt him. If I made a list of all the men that I wanted to be my kid's grandfather, Rumplestiltskin would be right there between Jack the Ripper and the Boston Strangler."

"Aw, come on, Em. He's bad, but not that bad. It was the magic that made him violent. When he was just a man, he was the kindest, most patient soul you'd ever want to meet. He raised me alone, from the time I was six. More than once he went hungry and cold so I could have enough. He was a spinner; did you know that? Damn good one, but nobody in the local area would buy from him because he was an army deserter. He had to walk to the next district to sell. A nine day trip."

"A deserter. A coward." Emma glances out of the corner of her eye to see if her strategy is working.

It is. "No," Bae gets pissed now. "Staying to fight—that would've been the cowardly thing. It was a war against _ogres_, Em. You got an idea—"

"Actually, I do. I had one breathing down my neck 'til my mom shot him between the eyes."

"Well, not every soldier's as good an archer as your mom. It was the Second Ogres War, and it had been going on for seven years at the time my father was drafted. He went, hoping he'd make a reputation for himself, come home a hero so he could make some good money for a change. But it was a slaughter and the duke knew it. A seer told my dad he didn't have a prayer of surviving, and she was right: his entire battalion was wiped out in a single battle. Dad wounded himself so he would be sent home. It wasn't because he was scared to die. It was because the seer told him I'd grow up without a father; that's what scared him. It was for me. Everything he did from that moment on until he stole the dagger was for me. All the times I hurt him, looked at him like he was less than a man because he was lame, told him if he wasn't such a coward we wouldn't have to be poor—he never yelled back at me, never spanked me. . . he forgave me every time. Until the magic gave him everything he thought he and I wanted."

"He doesn't have magic any more."

Bae closes his eyes. He's too tired to think, so he can't fight off the sliver of hope that's creeping in.

"He forgave you every time, huh?"

"It was the magic," he mutters, "that made him vicious. It was the Dark One. My father wasn't like that." _Forgive your father, then, not the Dark One. _That's what Belle would be saying. _For today. _He stands abruptly. "Good night, Em."

**Storybrooke General Room 304, 8:30 pm**

The hospital staff chased her out of the cafeteria so they could close, then they chased her out of the day room so the custodians could clean in there. Regina _could_ go home: she's perfectly fine and Whale knows it, but she and he also know—though neither has said anything about it to the other—it's better if she doesn't have to be alone tonight. Greg is still on the loose, with who-knows-how-many of his collaborators en route (or possibly already here, in hiding in the woods perhaps), and Regina's just lost her mother. So for a change, Regina obeys Sheriff Swan's orders and spends the night in the hospital, and then she obeys the hospital staff and returns to her room (hers and Rumple's. Shudder. She hopes he doesn't snore, because if he does, she'll have to gag him.)

As she enters the hallway, Tiny brings himself to attention (or is it that he's stiffening out of fear of her? One's just as good as the other), then unlocks the door and holds it open for her. Once she's entered, he closes and locks it again.

Gold is sitting up in bed. He's returned to his lime-green hospital gown; his suit is draped over the guest chair. That physics book is open and lying face down on his lap, but he's staring upward and toward the wall. Puzzled, she follows his gaze: the tv is on.

She's caught him. He's not only watching tv—he's watching a western. And he's not only watching a western—he's watching _Blazing Saddles_. Oh, the fun she'll have tomorrow leaking this tidbit of gossip all over town.

"Sorry," he mutters, fumbling among his sheets for the remote control. "I suppose you want to sleep now." He finds the remote and points it at the tv, ready to turn the movie off.

She continues into the room. "No, leave it on. I could use a laugh, and there's no point in going to sleep until they make us." She picks up her nightgown and robe, transported from her home. "Besides, we're adults; what gives them the right to tell us when we have to go to bed? Have they forgotten, we're the most powerful mages in the world?" Then she catches herself. "Oh. Sorry."

"Quite all right, dearie. Just keep thinking I still have my magic. We'll both be safer that way." He sets the remote onto his nightstand.

When she returns from the lav, freshly showered and dressed in her silk and satin, she pushes the roller screen back and settles into bed to watch the movie. It's not one she would have chosen; she's in the mood for _Beaches_ tonight, the perfect excuse to release a little emotional tension. But the movie seems to be nearing its conclusion, so she permits him to continue with it.

"Well, Mr. Gold, you surprise me. I've known you, what, two hundred years or more—I never would have guessed you for a fan of such crude humor."

"_Masterpiece Theatre_ was a rerun tonight," he shrugs, and she doesn't know whether he's kidding. He seems quite intent on _Blazing Saddles_, quite intent indeed.

Regina glances at the book he asked her to read. It's this dry tome or jokes about flatulence, so she chooses the movie. . . and finds herself giggling, despite the fact that she's a queen and the classiest woman in town. Later, it occurs to her that, despite his concentration on the movie, Gold doesn't crack a smile.

The movie ends and he offers her the remote, which she waves away. "I guess I'll turn in after all. It's been a long day." It's only 9 o'clock and Regina never turns in before midnight, but she is suddenly weary, and, strangely, relaxed. For the first time since Graham's death (_since she killed Graham_), someone's watching out for her. It reminds her of the old days, when she had a castle full of guards.

Sometime late, late that night, or early the next morning, Gold awakens to a muffled, gasping sound. He sits up, assuming Greg's gotten past Tiny, and he reaches for his cane; as weapons go, it's not as off-putting as the pistol he keeps at home, but he's done a hell of a lot more damage with it. He glances at the door: it's still shut. Greg must've come in through the window, then. As quietly as he can manage, Gold draws his sheets back, slides his bare feet to the cold floor and bites back a curse when his bad ankle and burnt thigh protest the sudden activity. Nevertheless, he inches forward, reaches out a hand to feel his way in the darkness, finds the screen still drawn back. He's close enough now that he can make out Regina's form under her blanket. She's asleep and alone. He scans the room thoroughly as his eyes adjust to the sliver of moonlight leaking through the window blinds. Satisfied then that they are alone and safe, he lets his cane be a cane again, leaning on it as he patters over to Regina's bed.

She's lying on her left side, facing towards him; she's curled into a half-ball, her hands stuffed under her pillow, and she's crying.

"Regina?" he whispers. She doesn't answer. Crying in her sleep then. He approaches until he's standing over her. He holds his palm above her forehead and starts to utter a relaxation spell, until he remembers he's powerless. He shifts from foot to foot, wondering what to do. When her intermittent gasps become full-blown sobs, he dares to lay his hand on the back of her head. She doesn't react, so he moves his hand in long, slow strokes, smoothing her hair.

_She's in an open grave. Magic has immobilized her: she can't move or speak or even open her eyes. She can't tell them that she's alive and they should take her out of this cold, damp hole that's too deep for her to climb out of. But even if they could hear her, she doubts if they would rescue her. As a spadeful of dirt is thrown upon her, she hears them laugh. _

**Dove's house, 6 am**

A hand clamps over his mouth and he lashes out with fists and feet; suddenly his body locks up, no longer responding to his demands. Paralyzed, he stares into the darkness, expecting a gun, a sword, a dagger; expecting Pan. This is just the sort of thing he would want: to steal into a dark bedroom while the prey slept, to cut the enemy's throat, to make a prize of the bloody body of Pan the Ninth. He would leave to his army the hard work of killing off the mages and the heroes, but he would reserve the right to kill his predecessors himself, to prove to everyone, himself included, that he was the master.

But it's a female voice that hushes him and bargains with him. "Baelfire. Be quiet and I'll let you go. I didn't come here to hurt you." She doesn't release his mouth from her hand or his body from her magic; she's waiting for some sign of submission. "Oh come on," she urges, "I wouldn't kill you with Henry in the room. Whatever you think of me, you must know I wouldn't kill my son's father." Now she releases him and steps back, allowing him to sit up. "That sounds strange, doesn't it? 'My son's father.' But I love him, so you're safe with me, as long as you don't try to take him away from me."

Free of the spell, he clambers to his feet. "What do you want, Regina? Did you come here to kidnap him?" Frantically, he squints in the darkness towards the army cot on which Henry is sleeping, but he can't see it, only a blank wall separating him from that part of the bedroom. "Where is he?" Bae runs to the wall and presses his hands against it.

"He's on the other side of that wall, sleeping peacefully. That's a sound barrier, so our little chat won't wake him. When I leave I'll take it down."

"I don't believe you." Bae pushes against the wall, trying to slide it aside or knock it over.

With a deep sigh of frustration, Regina waves her hand and the wall becomes a glass partition. Now Bae can see his son, and it's as Regina said, he's sleeping peacefully.

"All right." Bae sighs too, in relief. He returns to his half of the bedroom, where Regina stands with her arms folded.

"Satisfied?"

"I'd be a lot more satisfied if you'd leave."

Her voice frosts over. "I came to apologize."

"Apologize? Did I hear that right?" he moves a curtain aside to allow moonlight in. Bae doesn't trust anything he can't see, and only half of what he can see. Standing a head shorter than he, and dressed in a trim gray pantsuit with a red blouse, Regina doesn't cut a frightening figure, but Bae reminds himself of the power she so easily wields. No sense in provoking her, even though, if he could get off the first punch, he could possibly defeat her. . . .Nah. She's got years of experience and centuries of nastiness over him.

"What other way should I say it? It isn't like I do this every day," she snaps. "I apologize, I'm sorry, I beg your pardon, I was wrong. Pick one."

"Apologize for what?" He rubs the sleep from his eyes. "For trying to take Henry? For you and your mom attacking me and Emma and the Charmings?"

"I won't apologize for things I'm not sorry for." She sets her hands on her hips. "I'll do what it takes to get my son back from the people who've conned him away from me."

"Then what, Regina? Why are you dragging me out of the first decent sleep I've had in four days?"

Regina's hands fall to her sides. "I lied. That's what I'm apologizing for: I lied about what happened in the cannery."

"What do you mean?"

"Your father didn't intend to kill Tamara. It was an accident. Magic has a. . . sort of raw will of its own, and its first instinct is to survive, whatever that takes, even if it means killing the host. Although that rarely happens: magic tends to latch on tight to its hosts."

He scowls. "Sounds like you're describing some sort of parasite."

"'A symbiotic relationship,' that's what scientists in this world would call it. Magic takes what it needs to survive, gives what it can in return. Second law of magic: universal balance. Or as you father likes to natter on about: 'All magic comes with a price.' And vice versa. Magic pays its way. But to get back to the point: magic protected your father and itself by destroying its attacker. Tamara would have killed him, so magic retaliated in kind. Universal balance."

"Now you're just making up crap. Magic killed her, huh? You got a screw loose, lady."

"No, _he_ killed her; he could have stopped the magic, but it happened so fast, I don't think he had time to realize what he was doing. It was self-defense and it was an accident." She snaps her fingers and the sound barrier vanishes. "Now I've paid my debt. What you do with the information is up to you. I'm done here."

She snaps her fingers again and disappears.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Bae is reminded why he left the Enchanted Forest. This life of heroes and villains and magical beings is full of crap.

Still. . . .if she lied to him, does that mean he was wrong?


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

**A/N. U2's "All Because of You" inspired this chapter.**

* * *

**Storybrooke General Room 304, Monday, 6 am**

_He's walking down a long corridor, the walls of which are painted white. He's leaning heavily on his cane; with each step, he leans a little heavier as exhaustion creeps up behind him and slips its cool, dry hands around his throat. He has a vague sense that he's required to keep going, although he doesn't know where: just forward. It seems he's been walking this way for years. He glances up to gain his bearings: the ceiling, so low he could touch it if he stretched his cane up, is painted white. The floor, which absorbs his footfalls and his cane's tap, is painted white. In all this whiteness, he's lost his sense of distance and time. _

_He craves sound, to give him some sense of the natural, but the harder his feet impact the floor, the more unnatural the silence feels. He breathes heavily, but he can't hear his breath. He calls, but he can't hear his voice: Bae. Belle. _

_Regina._

_All along the corridor he's passed empty rooms, their open doors presenting a promise of more white, more nothing. It occurs to him this journey and all the effort he's put into it have been for nothing: there is nothing to be achieved, no one to see what he's accomplished. Whether he continues, as he's required to, or whether he quits, his choice will mean nothing. Whether he continues, as he's required to do, or whether he quits—that's the last choice left to him. Defeated, he walks into one of the rooms—it doesn't matter which—and slumps to the floor, his back pressed against the white wall. _

"It doesn't have to be that way."

Gold thrashes in his sheets, his thigh burning. A hand clamps on his shoulder to steady him. "Shh. Sorry, Mr. G. I was in the hall, taking my turn at guard duty, and I heard you. . . ."

As Gold sits up and twists to the right to eye the intruder, a light in the man's hands comes on. Gold blinks, forcing his vision to adjust to the sudden infusion of light, then glances up to identify the intruder. "Mr. Slightly. What—" before he can finish his question, he glances toward Regina's bed.

It's empty.

"It's okay, she's just running a quick errand. She'll be back in ten minutes or so. Sorry to disturb you at this early hour, but you seemed to need disturbing." Slightly sees that the guest chair is already occupied by Armani, so he gestures to the side of the bed. "Mind if I. . . ?"

Gold makes room for him. "You may be seated, Mr. Slightly."

Slightly pours him a glass of water and as Gold downs it in a gulp, the Lost Boy comments, "My boss says that the trouble with having the gift of foresight is that it's damn near impossible to separate the 'will be's' from the 'can be's.'"

"Indeed," Gold coughs; he shouldn't have chugged the water. "What's that you have?"

Slightly lifts the light-producing object. Gold can now see it's an enchanted mirror. "It's something my boss wanted you to see. The next two days are going to be rough, and there's a lot riding on you. You got to bring your A game. I mean, you're the man with the plan, right?"

"I take it your boss agrees with me about the evacuation." Gold forces confidence into his voice so that his words come out as a statement rather than a question.

"She does. It's going to be an uphill battle, not the least of which is getting the good folk of Storybrooke to trust you long enough to believe you. So here's the thing." Slightly sits down on the edge of the bed. "Something my boss thought might help you sleep better—and a reminder that there's a damn good reason why Belle and Bae are in your life. It's not random, you know: families are _put_ together. So, first off, my boss has a word of advice: Faith is what you need, Mr. G., not magic. You've got a rich vein of love, but a very shallow pocket of faith. Listen, when you went to the well and cast your magic in, it wasn't the magic that brought Belle's memory back. It was my boss, and the reason she answered your prayer had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with your faithfulness. When you said you'd stand by her no matter what, that was a pretty big demonstration of faith in love. To get through what's coming next, you need Bae too. So keep the faith with him; he's coming back around."

Gold twists his mouth, preparing to issue a cutting retort: what business has this kid, telling the Dark One what to do? But in the back of his mind Gold is still in the white room, and he finds he'd much rather dispense with pride than dispense with human (or even fairy) contact. He struggles, but he manages to say, "Thank you, Mr. Slightly, for the advice."

Slightly draws his attention back to the light in his hands. "I don't have any magic but my boss does, and from time to time she gives me a trinket to help me in my work. This is a Mirror of Probabilities. It'll show you a tiny glimpse of something that is likely to happen if you stay on the path you're currently following. You know all the pitfalls of tiny glimpses of the future, but I promise you, no tricks, no hazy word play. After you've had your glimpse, I can answer one question for you, plainly and directly. Will you accept this gift from my boss?"

Gold is fascinated by the mirror, but of course nothing comes free. "And the price?"

Slightly seems offended. "It's a gift. I suppose, if you want to put a price to it, the price is trust. And as I said, it's a probability, not a certainty."

Gold looks a little abashed. "I accept. Thank you."

Slightly presents the mirror. "You have 30 seconds."

Gold stares into the center of the mirror, at first seeing nothing more than his own face, bruised, wrinkled, tired, fighting down a feeling of being haunted. But the image fades out and fades back in again, like a dissolve between scenes in a movie, and as the image enlarges and sharpens, he can see a little blonde-haired girl, perhaps five or six years old, in jeans and sweater, come running into a small house, leaving the front door open. She runs to the fireplace, where a nearly bald man spins wool—wool, not gold—at a wheel: Gold recognizes himself, but it's not exactly Gold or Rumplestiltskin: he's dressed not in Armani or leather, but in plain cotton. The girl starts to climb onto his right knee, then thinks better of it, comes around to his left and hops on, giggling as she sets her hands on top of his, and the four hands together move the wheel.

"Who is that?" Gold blurts.

Slightly's grinning. "Your True Love."

"It's not Belle," Gold objects, then feels rather stupid; all seers must play these cryptic games. Union rules, he supposes; he did it himself when he prognosticated, back in the day.

"You can have more than one, you know; there's more than one kind of true love. In your case, you have seven."

"Seven?!"

Now Slightly's grin grows sly. "When you came to Evaton, you forgot to bring contraceptives. And you and Belle were quite. . . you know…prolific."

Gold's caught on now. "Seven. . . ." he muses.

"Bear in mind, they aren't necessarily all_ directly_ yours. Judging from that receding hairline—"

"'Surrendered and retreated hairline' would be more accurate a description," Gold mutters.

"—she could be a granddaughter—just a guess, though; like I said, I can answer only one question. Hmm, Henry's eleven now; she could even be your great-granddaughter. I don't know. But I do know you love her like crazy and her name's Maerwynn." Slightly takes the mirror back and it instantly vanishes. "The next two days, just remember that's what you're fighting for. Have faith that you can pull it off, if you'll trust in your family, your _whole_ family. See you at the meeting tonight, Mr. G. Hope you get some decent sleep."

**Gold's House, 7 am**

"Rise and shine, boys, rise and shine," Belle calls up the stairs for Gold's houseguests. By the stringent request (he wouldn't _dare_ order her to do anything) of her beloved, Belle spent the night in this rambling house last night. She slept in the only available bedroom, and slept quite soundly under the familiar comforter, with moonlight blanketing the garden below the bay window. She slept on Gold's side of the bed, cuddling his pillow, and when she awoke this morning her eyes opened upon the collection of framed photos on his dresser, photos of him and her. She thinks they should take some photos of Bae too, and then she wonders if they will be able to bring anything as trivial as photos along with them to the Enchanted Forest. Surely, they will have to leave most unnecessary things like that behind, carry only essentials like medicine and tools.

They will have to leave the library behind.

She tries to put that thought behind her by preparing breakfast for the houseguests. She's never cooked for anyone but herself and Rumple before, so she has no idea how much food six men can eat in one sitting. She practically empties the refrigerator and the cupboards, but at last she's satisfied that she can fill every stomach, so she calls them to the table.

They come down the stairs sedately, respectful of their hostess, and one of them withdraws a chair for her as the others stand quietly until she is seated. Once the platters begin to circulate, however, it's a different story. They talk around mouthfuls of food, for there is much to talk about; although none of them plans on accompanying the evacuees to the Enchanted Forest, all of them intend to stay and fight until the moment of the evacuation. Who better, they tell themselves; they know the denizens of Neverland better than anyone. And who is more responsible, they confess in hushed tones, for the current leaders of Neverland were once small, naïve children under the leadership of their own generation. And so they strategize around mouthfuls of scrambled eggs and corned beef hash, their plans ever mindful of the fact that they must not only defeat the enemy but protect the elderly and the children. They are pleasantly surprised when Belle helps them flesh out their strategy, for they have no knowledge of her former life.

Looking upon her with a different kind of respect now, they encourage her to remain seated as they wash the dishes. She wonders if someday, perhaps forty years from now, she will be sitting at a breakfast table, Rumplestiltskin seated across from her, and the kitchen will be bustling, as it is now, with young houseguests, and the offspring of the houseguests, and one of those young men or young women will say to the others, "Do you remember such-and-such," and they will all turn to Belle for confirmation, with a query, "You remember, don't you, Mama?" And Belle will say, "Of course I do," because after her experience with the curse, she knows how precious every memory is, and she holds each one close to her breast, like she once held her babies.

**Storybrooke General Room 304, 9 am**

As the nurse removes the blood pressure cuff from Regina's arm, Whale enters and approaches the queen's bedside. "How are you feeling this morning, Your Majesty?"

"Considering there's a man running loose out there who killed my mother and attacked me and the sheriff's just sitting in her office flirting with a pirate, I'm just dandy," Regina snarls.

"One ten over seventy," the nurse reports. "Temp 97.9." She types the information into an Ipad.

"Very good," Whale says, then to Regina, "Any complaints—health-related, I mean; I already know you hate our food."

"The accommodations have left much to be desired, too," she tilts her head meaningfully toward Gold, who merely smiles back at her.

"Just cooperating with the constables," Whale shrugs. "Well, Your Majesty, you're fully recovered from your ordeal and you're free to go. If you experience any symptoms, call me. Though I doubt that will be necessary."

Regina makes a little dismissive grunt as she rises from her bed and waves her hand to pack her overnight bag. With another wave of her hand, her silk negligee is replaced by a skirt and blazer.

"The healing properties of magic," Gold comments. "Once again trumping science." He emphasizes the point by swinging his injured leg off the bed and onto the floor, wincing at the ensuing pain.

"Why are you dressed, Mr. Gold?" the nurse gripes, for the man has reclaimed his suit, right down to the tie and jacket. "You know that's against the rules. We can't change your bandage if you have your trousers on."

Gold stands, leaning on his cane for balance. "I shall tend to the bandages myself, thank you."

As he slides his feet into his Ferragamos, the nurse rushes to his side, her hands on her hips. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Mr. Gold, you seem to think I've discharged you too," Whale observes. "Not the case. We'll have the pleasure of your company at least another two days. If that burn isn't properly tended to, an infection—"

"If Storybrooke isn't properly tended to, an infection will be the least of my problems." Gold glares at the doctor, then at the nurse, who takes a step backward, granting him room to move away from his bed. "Or haven't you heard we're in a state of high alert?"

"Mr. Gold, a third-degree burn is a serious event. It'll be at least a month before you heal. In the meantime, you could develop pneumonia—"

"Pan is coming," Gold snaps, as if that announcement should be sufficient. He brushes past the nurse. "I don't intend to die in bed."

"All right," Whale sighs, to the consternation of the nurse. He instructs her, "Get a package together for him: acetaminophen, antibacterial soap, antimicrobial cream, roller gauze, Cuticerin." She frowns but leaves the room. Whale types into his Ipad as he lays down the law for Gold: "Keep the leg elevated. You shouldn't even be walking—stay off your feet. Let other people do the grunt work. Twice a day, wash the area with the soap, pat it dry, apply the clean bandage. Watch for drainage, nausea, fever. The swelling should go down in another day or two, if you stay off your feet. Drink 10 glasses of water a day. High carb diet. Can you remember all that?" He types again. "Here, I'm emailing it to Belle. Call me immediately if you experience blurriness in your vision, slurred speech, extreme drowsiness, problem recognizing people, confusion—"

"We're all in for a lot of confusion in the next two days," Gold interrupts. "Tell you what, doctor: if you see any symptoms of extreme magic, _you_ can call _me_." He approaches Regina and offers her the crook of his left arm. "If you're ready, Your Majesty?"

The queen hesitates before slipping her arm through his. "Very well, Mr. Gold." As he escorts her to the elevator, she has to shorten her steps to match her pace to his. She should be smirking right now, she thinks; here is proof positive she's won. Her enemy is nothing more than a frail, ageing human, while she is in the prime of her power. But walking along beside him like this, hearing his labored breathing, glancing surreptitiously at the bruises beneath his eyes, Regina feels robbed of her victory.

She presses the elevator button just as the nurse, panting, runs up and thrusts a plastic bag full of medical supplies at Gold. "Allow me," Regina offers, indicating the bag. "Where shall I send these?"

"My house, the kitchen table."

In a blink the bag has been transported. The elevator arrives and he follows her in. "And now, if you please, I'd like you to come with me. I have a bit of a lab set up in my basement. Nothing like the labs I had at the Dark Castle, alas."

The skin around his lips has turned white, and Regina wonders if she should press the elevator button again, take him right back up to the third floor. She looks at the button.

He's figured out what she's thinking and he shakes his head. "We have work to do. It will take _both_ of us." The elevator arrives on the first floor and the door slides open. "May I propose a truce, long enough for us to dispose of Pan?"

Regina has no horse in that race. She has the magic, she has the beans, she can grab Henry and run any time she likes, and all the better that Pan is coming, for once he's finished with Storybrooke, there will be no one left to pursue Regina. She's made a deal with the Charmings, but unlike Rumplestiltskin, her magic doesn't compel her to keep her word. She's free.

As they walk out into the sunshine, into the pretty little town she (with some help from the imp) created, she breathes in the crisp morning air.

Gold raises his hand to summon his magic, then growls, remembering. He digs into his suit jacket for his phone. "I'll call for a car."

Regina pats his arm. "Not necessary." She snaps her fingers, thinking only later that perhaps it's not a good idea to transport a sick man by magic. She lands them in front of his spinning wheel; he reaches out for it, steadying himself.

He glances at her with a little pleasant surprise in his eyes. "Thank you, Regina." He's referring to her cooperation in more than just the transportation.

Regina surveys the bottled potions on the shelf behind the spinning wheel. "What are we conjuring today—master?"

He flashes a small smile at the old form of address. "If you'll bring me _Protective Spells and Potions Vol. II_ from my shop, we'll get started."

"Let's get to work then." Regina is free, except she's not: she's still burdened with a heart.

The book appears on the base of the spinning wheel. He lays his hand on the cover and turning away from Regina, he murmurs to himself, "Pan's coming, but so is Maerwynn."

**Sheriff's Office, 10 am **

The dwarves are out patrolling the borders, on the watch for unfamiliar vehicles; the Lost Boys and Belle are out searching the West Woods; David and Snow are cataloging the contents of the U-Haul while an electrical engineer from the Utilities Department studies the electronic devices, starting with the most familiar-looking. While Emma continues to try to hack into the laptop she confiscated from the cannery, Hook persists in pushing her buttons. He's switched his tactics, though; this morning, instead of flirting, he's prodding her to allow him to help in the search. "I do have a little more experience with Greg than any of you do," he points out; Emma points out that Hook has changed sides more often than a runway model changes clothes, and doesn't bother to answer when he asks, "What's a runway model?"

The deeper she dug into the files yesterday, the more convinced she became that this "Home Office" is much more than an office: although only a few years old, the Restitutio Initiative is a global operation with nonprofit status and a great deal of money behind it. It claims as its mission the rectification of imbalances to natural law caused by supernatural phenomena.

"Sounds like hogwash whitewashed in mumbo jumbo to me," David comments when Emma reads this mission statement aloud. "So what kinds of things have they been tracking? Ghost sightings and that sort of thing?"

"That's the interesting part. From the description, you'd expect they'd be all up into paranormal stuff like that, but it seems not—unless Greg and Tamara were, like, part of a special unit focusing on magic, 'cause that's all they did: they went around the world investigating reports of acts of magic."

"Must've spent a lot of time in Vegas, then," David says dryly. "Penn and Teller, David Copperfield, Criss Angel. . . ."

Then Snow throws her for a loop: "Just a cockamamie thought here, but what if all this"—she waves her arms over the boxes—"is fake? An elaborate con game—a, what do you call it?"

"'Long con,'" David supplies.

"Right, a long con meant to trick people like Tamara and Greg into doing Pan's bidding? Or for that matter, to trick people like us into surrendering?"

"Or running away instead of fighting," David adds.

"I've been able to verify the existence of the major funder behind this operation: the Hanso Group. And I've found newspaper articles about some of the scientists mentioned in these documents," Emma says. "I think we have to operate like we think this thing is real. We've got a hundred kids to worry about; we can't take chances on conspiracy theories."

They fall silent for several long minutes, each becoming engrossed in his or her work, when suddenly Emma exclaims, "Crap on a cracker!" and she fumbles for her phone.

"What've you got?" David abandons the box he's organizing to come to her side.

She points to the laptop screen. "I got in, that's what I got, and look at this email Tamara sent two years ago."

David leans over her shoulder to read the screen as Snow comes in to join them. David releases a long, low whistle, then reconsiders, "It could be a lie."

"Could be," Emma agrees, "and this could be fake too, but I kinda doubt it." She opens a jpeg attached to the message. The fuzzy photo shows an elderly Asian man with a patchy white beard. David shrugs. "So?"

Emma points to the man's feet—which are elevated about a yard above the floor. "Okay," he says slowly, "but Criss Angel does that all the time."

"Yeah, but if this guy's just another entertainer, how come Tamara buzzed him with her magic-stealing thing and killed him?" Emma ponders.

Snow points to the date line of the email. "Take a look at this."

"October 26, 2011," David reads. "So, about 19 months ago."

"Four days after Emma came to Storybrooke and time started moving for us again," Snow points out.

"Folks, I think this is the real deal," Emma decides, dialing her phone. "Mr. Gold?. . . Yeah, everybody's fine. But listen to this." And she reads Tamara's email. There's a long pause as she waits for Gold's reaction; when it comes—a simple, "Indeed? How interesting"—she's disappointed. "I've just given you news that would set this world on its ear, and that's all you've got? 'Interesting?'" She listens again. "Yeah, okay. . . . Well, that's police evidence. . . . Yeah, yeah, you're right."

As her parents watch in amazement, she rises, unlocks the evidence closet, and removes 1-B, the plastic bag containing the magic-dampening wrist band. She draws in a deep breath, stares at the bag, and in a puff of yellow smoke 1-B vanishes. She resumes her phone conversation. "You got it now?. . . Okay. I'll check in with you later. Let me know when you've got something."

Snow grabs Emma's elbow. "Well?"

"Well." Emma blinks. If she takes a moment to reflect on everything that's happened since she arrived in Storybrooke, she'll freak; she can reflect on nothing; everything here requires belief to be seen. "Did Scotty just beam us up? Because Gold is building a Romulan cloaking device—and Regina's helping him."

**Gold's Basement, 10 am**

"What was that about?" Regina doesn't look up; she's in a delicate stage in the process of heating a potion.

"It seems, my dear, we were misinformed when we were told this is a land without magic. A genuine mage was discovered, and assassinated, in Thailand two years ago."


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter 37

**Gold's House 12:00 pm**

Although she created it, Regina has never been inside Gold's house, so when he suggests, "I think we're ready to proceed to the bedroom," she accepts the offer with great curiosity; she's aware, however, that the suggestion is far from salacious. It's time to test the cloaking spell, and until the arrival of the Lost Boys, the three guest bedrooms were the least used rooms in the house, and therefore the most expendable, in Gold's mind. They make their way up the stairs from the basement to the kitchen, and there Gold, his leg dragging, must pause, disguising the interruption in their journey as a tea break. Regina starts to object when he pours water into a tea kettle: why doesn't he use the microwave and speed things up? But it occurs to her that he may be delaying a bit because he needs the rest, so she makes herself useful by searching for cream.

"You said the Lost Boys are staying with you?" she remarks. "They've almost cleaned you out." She pulls the refrigerator door wide so he can see the empty interior.

"Looks like they'll need to order take-out tonight," he agrees. "And we shall have to drink our tea black. I'm out of sugar too."

Regina fakes a shudder. "Too uncivilized." She conjures a fridge full of food, including a plate of scones. Seating herself at the table, she watches as he busies himself with preparing a tea tray. "What does it feel like?" she asks abruptly.

She's asking about the loss of magic. He could pretend he doesn't know what she means, but that would simply waste time. Once she asks a question, even one she has little real interest in, she will persist until she has an answer. In the old country, they wasted many an afternoon on trivial matters of magic because of that stubbornness of hers—the same stubbornness that wrestled her impatience to the mat through two years of piecing the Final Curse together. His back turned toward her, he needn't control his expression, but he does anyway, out of long habit. He is Mr. Gold, who's always prepared because he always plans ahead, and therefore he is unflappable, and that's what he puts into his voice when he answers, "I suppose I don't know yet. The pain of my injuries gets in the way."

"What does that feel like?" she asks. She's not being nasty; she really doesn't know. Emotional pain, she's felt more than her fair share; but physical pain. . . the last time she can remember feeling physical pain, she was fifteen and fell off Rosanante as he leapt a hedge. The broken wrist that she received she and her father hid from Cora for two days; when Cora learned of it, of course she insisted on curing it with magic. And that has been Regina's medicine ever since: any ache, from saddle sores to the miscarriage she has suffered in the second year of her marriage, has been immediately eliminated with a dose of magic.

So too had Rumplestiltskin treated injury and illness in the early days of his power, but he'd learned restraint, first from Bae, then from his own growing understanding of the laws of magic. For anything created, destroyed or altered by magic, even something as small as a plate of scones, payment must be made: if not by the mage, then by some innocent. Magic doesn't care who pays the price, only that the price is paid in full. He learned that the hard way when he settled the Second Ogres War with a display of magic pyrotechnics—and the day after he'd led the young soldiers home from the battlefield, he discovered that their mothers had been stricken with a pox that left them barren. Since then he'd been fanatical about adhering to the laws of magic. If a problem could be fixed by hand or by herb, he fixed it so, resorting to magic only at the last.

"You've been too profligate with your power," he remarks. "Sometimes it's less painful in the long run to take a few hits up front. If its price goes unpaid too long, magic charges a high interest rate."

"You think like an old man," she complains.

The kettle whistles, ending that discussion. He serves the tea and swallows a pair of acetaminophen caplets before drinking. "Elevate the leg," she reminds him, and he props it on a chair. Subtly, though she catches it anyway, he massages his temple.

"I can heal your injuries," she offers. "As payment for the tea."

His eyes light up and he deliberates. A cup of tea is hardly sufficient payment; for restored health, he would have to surrender something significant. Magic no longer speaks to him, but he can easily imagine what it would demand: _surrender the tea cup—not the one in your hand; the broken one in your safe_.

"Now is not the time to start acting noble," Regina reminds him. "Your injuries are interfering with our work. If we lose, it'll be on your head."

She doesn't get it, he thinks. It's not a game they're playing: "win" and "lose" are not the outcomes here. Then he realizes that having recently shaken Death's left hand, he's afraid. As old as he is, he's just discovered he loves life. Maybe she's right to oversimplify the situation, if doing so will eliminate the knot of fear tightening around his imagination.

"Don't be a fool. A little magic now to get you back on your feet may prevent someone you love from getting hurt later."

It's a temptation beyond endurance. Belle would understand: she wouldn't see it as a betrayal but rather a small sacrifice she'd make without hesitation, to have him whole again. "In my shop, there's a velvet bag. It contains something important to me. The magic will know where to find it. Take it."

She calls upon magic to find the bag; when it does, she starts to tell magic to take the payment, but some message being sent back to her fingers informs her that this object bears special meaning to Belle too. . . and Regina owes Belle, big time. A strange impulse seizes the queen: she takes this opportunity to balance the scales a little. With a flick of her hand she returns the velvet bag to its shelf in the display counter, and instead instructs magic to take as payment Henry's plaster handprint.

Smiling in secret satisfaction, she rises. She could do this from where she's sitting—she could do this even as she sips her tea—but out of respect (for the magic or for him?) she rises, kneels beside his chair, calls the magic forth and sets her glowing hand on his knee. He gasps as the magic courses through his veins, sears the nerve endings in his leg, wraps itself like an electric blanket around his thigh and his ankle. A thousand times faster and more powerful than the morphine drip Whale had administered yesterday, the magic whirls through his organs and swirls in his brain. His body laps it up; his soul fires up; he's starved for it; his cells attempt to store it. He shouldn't have accepted this, he can't handle this, his addiction returns with a vengeance and he clutches his hands uselessly, begging the magic to bend to his will, but it's not his and it can't stay. When it withdraws, his body is healed but his soul is in worse pain than his leg ever was.

"What's wrong?" Regina stands over him. "It worked, didn't it?"

He nods, and when he opens his eyes she has a hunch what's going on, for the irises have turned gold. "Oh," she breathes. Hastily, she calls her magic back home, and when she looks again she's looking into Mr. Gold's eyes.

"I fixed your ankle too," she says, hoping to compensate for provoking his addiction. She's had a little experience in that regard: she remembers the wretchedness of going cold turkey. "You won't need your cane any more."

Leaning against the table, he stands, testing the leg. Little by little he shifts his weight toward the right until he's standing unaided and balanced. He picks up the tea tray and carries it to the sink: for the first time in thirty years, he has the use of both hands as he walks. "Thank you," he says.

"I've been meaning to ask you about that." She puts the cream back in the refrigerator. "Why didn't you heal that ankle yourself months ago?"

He unloads the dishes into the dishwasher, and again his back is to her. "Busy with other things, I suppose." He hesitates a moment before releasing his tea cup to the dishwasher.

"Well, back to work," Regina says brightly. "Take me to your bedroom."

"Be careful how you say that, dearie."

**Sheriff's Office 12:30 pm**

Emma is blazing a trail through the forest of emails between the Restitutio Initiative, Tamara and Greg. The primary point of contact for the field officers is an individual whose signature line and email address identify him only as Linus. Emma assumes it's a first name, but who knows; it may not even be real. She discovers that Greg and Tamara have been using aliases.

She's been taking notes all morning, and now her notes are so plentiful and disorganized that she asks Snow to come in and sort them out. Snow develops a tri-level system of organization, by date, by sender and by subject, and under each of these, subcategories; she then types the notes into three outlines. Both women realize they are proceeding as if prosecution is possible, when it's not: this community has less than two days left. But order gives them a sense of control, and besides, somewhere in these notes may lie clues to Pan's defeat.

As she's cutting a swath through the emails, Emma keeps coming across copies of emails exchanged between Tamara and Neal; Tamara not only blind-copied the emails over from a personal account to this business one, she also copied every one of the messages for Greg, probably as a way of keeping him informed, for surely these messages couldn't have reassured him of her emotional fidelity. The messages fluctuate between flirty, funny, thoughtful and passionate. Emma has qualms about reading these messages, especially Neal's replies, but they're evidence and help to clarify Tamara and Greg's plans.

They also help Emma to see how Neal fell for Tamara (or, Emma's hoping, deceived himself into thinking he did).

At one point Emma releases the mouse and scoots her chair back from the laptop. Snow pats her hand. "What's wrong, honey?"

"Sometimes being the sheriff is a real bitch, you know? These are evidence. There are strict rules about how and when I can share them with people outside the investigative team."

"But you're thinking you'd like to show them to Neal," Snow surmises. "To help him get over her."

"And feel less stupid for being made a fool. These messages show she was a real pro, a con woman with a whole group of people advising her how to manipulate him. I mean, check this out: here's this person Julia advising Tamara when she should sleep with Neal for the first time! Shouldn't he be told about this? And not just told, because he won't believe it unless he sees these messages for himself."

"Think carefully, honey. Would it really help him to see these messages? You may be able to get around the legalities of showing them to him, but would it be for his good or for your own satisfaction?"

"You're only making it harder," Emma mutters.

"Love is about the tough choices," Snow remarks. "Doing the right thing for your loved ones, even when it hurts, because you have to honor your relationship with honesty."

"In other words, you're advising me not to tell him about any of this."

"No, I'm just trying to help you see the whole picture." Snow smiles a little. "By the way, did you notice just now when I insinuated that you're still in love with Neal, you didn't correct me?"

"Well, you're going to think what you're going to think regardless of what I say—just like any mom does."

**Dove's House 12:30 pm**

As a thank-you for Dove's hospitality, Bae has prepared lunch for the three of them, giving Dove an opportunity for a nap. Bae takes advantage of this chore to create a teaching moment for Henry: they have a great deal of fun slapping out hamburger patties and slicing potatoes for fresh French fries. As they work, Bae finds that Henry's a sponge: for the price of a little attention, a word of praise and a bit of patience, Bae purchases admiration the likes of which he hasn't experienced since his short-lived stay with the Darlings. In fact, Henry reminds him a lot of Michael, the youngest and most impressionable Darling, that is, until. . .

At first, Henry's filled with questions about the Enchanted Forest and Neverland, but Bae pushes those inquires off and talks about the sort of stuff he's seen the fathers of this world talk to their sons about: sports and bikes and cars and video games. How easy it is to impress the kid, Bae finds; and how easy it is to fall into pride every time Henry's impressed. They're both starved for this sort of connection, so Bae keeps the conversation light; the hard truths must be explored, but later, when both father and son are assured their bond can survive the challenge.

Ah, but Henry's spent his life around adults, so when Dove awakens and joins them at the kitchen table, the kid bends the conversation in hopes of leading Bae into those more dangerous subjects. What starts out as a statistical analysis of the Yankees' chances for another World Series becomes a request for stories about the games Bae played when he was a child, and somehow, with Dove's quiet participation, that conversation leads around to the relationship between young Bae and pre-curse Rumplestiltskin. "Emma lied to me about you being a fireman," Henry says, "because she thought it would hurt me if she told me the truth. But I think it's way better to have a real father who's just kinda regular, like, does things wrong sometimes, than to have a fake father who's a hero."

"Heroism comes in all sorts of packages, Henry," Dove points out. "Sometimes it's a sword-fighting prince on a horse, but sometimes it's a pawnbroker never giving up on finding his lost son. And sometimes it's a son who sees all the mistakes his parents have made but forgives them because he also sees all the love they have for him."

Bae shoots Dove a pissed-off look. "I thought we were talking about baseball."

"Something I've observed about successful baseball teams, Master Bae: like successful families, they learn to forgive the errors so they can help each other get home safe."

"Bad pun," Bae comments.

"Well, I'm not much of a writer," Dove admits. "But I know the family you're lucky enough to be welcome into needs for you to want to be a part of it, and I know a guy needs to feel needed."

"He also needs to feel he can trust his family, that they're not going to chicken out on him."

Henry chimes in, "_I_ trust _you_, Neal."

Bae reaches out with a napkin to wipe up the blob of ketchup that's about to land on Henry's shirt. He sighs, his mind made up. "Who's gonna teach you how to throw a curve ball if I'm not there? Mr. Dove, can we borrow the keys to the pawnshop? We need to see if Dad's got a catcher's mitt we can pack to take to the Enchanted Forest."

Dove fishes out the keys. "While you're there, look in the cabinet that the cash register sits on. Here's the key for it. You'll find a ball signed by the entire Murderers Row. He bought it at auction last year, intending to give it to you someday. You should pack that too."

Bae whistles in appreciation. "Must've cost him a hundred grand."

"More," Dove confesses. "It cost more than just money. The price of hope is faith."

**Gold's House, 2 pm**

"Formula Three," Regina announces as she raises the parchment to her lips and blows the spell free of the page. A greenish sheen fills the open doorway, and when it dissipates, the bedroom has vanished, or appears to have. "So far, so good."

Gold has strapped the magic-dampener onto his wrist. Regina can't come near it without endangering herself, but Gold could wear it until Kingdom Come without suffering more than a heat rash from the leather. He wonders what would have become of the Enchanted Forest if Charming or Blue had possessed this band. . . or if Regina or Maleficent had. He wonders what he himself would have done with such a device. It's one thing to defeat an enemy in a magic fight, but quite another to render him or her helpless—humanized.

"Here goes." He walks across the threshold and neatly sidesteps the pile of clothes the Twins have left on the floor. "Damn it." The cloaking spell should have made those clothes, and indeed, the entire room, invisible to him, but Tamara's cuff has blocked the magic. He turns around to face Regina. "Do you see the room too?"

Regina slaps her hands against her sides in frustration. "On to Formula Four. You really should tell your houseguests to tidy up a bit."

**Sheriff's Office, 2 pm**

The sheriff's phone rings while she's out on a bathroom break, so Snow takes the message. When Emma returns, Snow reports, "That was the medical examiner. The preliminary report on the autopsy shows the cause of Tamara's death was asphyxiation by magic."

Emma clicks her tongue. "Yesterday, I would've said Storybrooke's the only town in the world where you can get a finding like that. But now we've got to add Phuket to that list."

"I wonder what the Bermuda Triangle conspiracy theorists would make of this," Snow muses.

"I don't suppose the DA's office will be all that interested in pursing a case, considering this town's probably going to be non-existent tomorrow."

"I don't think anybody's even seen Spencer in months," Snow winces. "But if they did want to open a case, what would you tell them?"

"Justifiable homicide."

**West Woods, 2 pm**

"Fellas, look here!" Nibs crows. He's crouching on the muddy bank of the Neowa River, studying something on the ground. As Belle and the Boys approach, he points out what he sees: "A man's footprints leading into the water. It's too far to swim across, so most likely a rowboat or motorboat picked him up here."

"What makes you think it was Mendell?" Twin One asks.

Nibs swings around and points to an object in the mud behind him. It's a brown newsboy cap, size 7 and 3/8, just like the one Emma had warned them to look out for.

As Twin One takes photos of the scene with his phone, Slightly studies the far side of the river. "Boys—and Belle—what say we take a little drive over to the other side of the river?"

**Gold's Basement, 4 pm**

"I think it's safe to assume that there's more of these." Gold yanks the magic dampener off his wrist and sets it on his lab table. "And it's four o'clock. The meeting is at six."

"Are you giving up?" Regina asks. "That's a first."

"Not giving up, just changing tactics." Gold seats himself at the spinning wheel and runs his hands over the soothing wood. He wishes he could lose himself in spinning for a couple of hours; surely then he'd work out this problem.

"How's your leg?"

He tests it. Funny how quickly he forgot the burn injury, now that it's gone; yet the limp is so deeply ingrained in his psyche that he's been favoring his right ankle all afternoon. "Perfect."

"So what's Plan B?"

He runs his hands through his hair, and an image of a balding old man holding his daughter (granddaughter? great-granddaughter?) on his knee leaps from his memory. He reaches for his phone; he wants nothing so much as to call Belle and tell her about their seven True Loves, but urgent work must be accomplished. Besides, he cautions himself, Belle might be a little freaked out when she hears that number. Even if Belle and Bae are two of the seven, that's still a lot of Probabilities.

He'd better make sure he persuades the hospital's OB/GYN to relocate to the Enchanted Forest instead of bailing out for New York.

"Rumple? Do you have a headache?"

"Just thinking. Plan B. Plan B is the _Blazing Saddles_ plan." He stands. "I'm glad you watched the movie with me, because otherwise, Plan B would sound kind of ridiculous."

"_Blazing Saddles_, you said? Rumple, I think it's time for your meds."


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38

**Gold's House, 4:05 pm**

Gold leads Regina from the basement to the garage, only to find his Caddy missing. "Belle and the boys must have taken it," he murmurs, but before he can suggest an alternate mode of transport, Regina snaps her fingers (she's learned not to ask him first before using magic) and lands them at the front door of his shop. "Every minute counts," she starts, in case he wants to argue, but he merely unlocks the door and flips on the lights.

"So, Plan B?" she prompts.

"This is your solo." He selects another key from his ring and moves around, rapidly unlocking all the display cabinets. When he comes to the one upon which his cash register rests, he freezes, that old familiar lip-peeling anger creeping across his face. Regina feels right at home now.

"What is it?"

"Someone's been here." He runs his fingers along the cabinet's lock. "Someone with a key—or magic." He's about to ask her to turn around, but then he remembers that anything of this world that he owns will become worthless to him tomorrow, for he can take very little of it with him to the old world. So fighting the instincts natural to a shop owner, he allows her to watch as he swings aside one of his landscape paintings (_his_ paintings, painted by him in the empty nights before Emma came to town: only after the savior kissed the curse broken did he realize that memories of the Enchanted Forest had leaked through the murkiest pools of his imagination and become tangible proof of his homesickness. No one, not even Belle, has ever asked the name of the artist who created these landscapes, nor their meaning, so he's never told anyone: it's his last secret).

"Not very original, Rumple," Regina critiques. "In _every_ old movie, the rich guy's safe is always behind a painting."

He ignores the comment and opens the safe, and out of the corner of his eye he watches her eyebrows shoot up as he retrieves the sole object in the safe: a frayed and faded wool scarf. The sorry scrap doesn't even to pretend to have once been pretty. "No money or jewels? No handwritten spells? No blackmailable secrets about your enemies?"

"That's what safe deposit boxes are for, dearie," he answers dryly. But her remark reminds him that when Nature swallows Storybrooke whole, all his tightly pinched pennies will be swallowed too: the dollars, the stocks and bonds, the contracts, the property titles will all blow away in the wind, and the coins and the jewels will sink into the mud, perhaps to be found again someday by wilderness hikers, but perhaps not. The long hours of planning, recordkeeping, negotiating, finagling, haranguing and tramping from one end of town to the other in every kind of weather to collect his due will have been for naught. Tomorrow, when Nature subsumes his wealth, twenty-eight years of Goldness will come to a meaningless end.

He chuckles to himself.

"What?" Regina asks suspiciously.

"Nothing," he says, and it truly is: his wealth amounts to nothing. He slips the bit of cloth around his neck.

"You sure that's a good idea? That thing could be infested with lice."

"It's only infested with memories, Regina." He closes the safe, not bothering to lock it.

"So what did they get?"

"Hmm?" He continues about the shop, unlocking cabinets and cupboards.

"The thieves. What did they take?" Regina walks around to the cash register. "Doesn't look like they bothered with this at all."

"Oh." He waves vaguely at an empty space inside the display counter. "A baseball."

"A _baseball_?" Regina crouches to study the empty space. She too sees no signs of disturbance. "They didn't touch the cash register but they took a _baseball_?" She snorts. "Must've been high on drugs."

"An autographed baseball from the 1927 Yankees."

As if that explains it. Regina smirks. "Now I _know_ they were on drugs. They didn't even bother to steal a new one."

He bursts out laughing. He reaches into the cabinets and begins to set objects on top of the glass. As far as she can tell, there's no rhyme or reason to his selections: some of the objects appear to be valuable, but others no better than baubles, and some, simply junk. . . until he brings forth a tiara: the silver has been shaped to form flower stems and pedals, and diamonds form the stigmas.

Glory of the Snow flowers, Regina remembers. This is Snow's tiara, an inheritance from Eva.

Dark flares up in Regina's soul and she thinks, when Rumple's back is turned, she will take that tiara—a valuable thing for its artistry and jewels, but for Snow, a priceless thing for its heritage. Regina, the only rightful queen, will take this symbol of Snow's attempted theft of the throne, and she will crush it into ash, just as she has crushed more hearts than she can remember. She doesn't even have to wait for Rumple to turn his back: she's the one with the power now. He's got—hell, he doesn't even have his raggedy old baseball any more. She can take what she likes.

She reaches for the tiara, holds it up to the fluorescent light, recalls each and every royal ball or knighting or procession at which that cow of a handmaid set this trinket on Little Snow's pretty little head. Princess Snow, third in line to the throne—who could only become queen if Regina abdicated (ha!) or died. Regina's hands clench around the tiara.

"Find something else to crush." Gold rumbles from across the room. "We need that for the war."

And though she's the one with the power and he's nothing but a scrawny old man, she sets the tiara down. For now. To remove herself from the temptation she strolls, as if bored, through the curtain and into the workroom. Gold usually doesn't permit anyone back there, least of all her, so her intrusion is a small way she reminds him she's in charge. He ignores her, seemingly far more interested in unloading his treasures (does he intend to take them to the Enchanted Forest tomorrow? All that junk through the portal? Really, dearie?).

She snoops freely, even moving some things around just to show she's been here. Of course, disrupting the order in which he's arranged his workroom (discernable only to him) would mean a lot more if he were actually going to be here tomorrow to be irritated by it. Lying on top of an open jeweler's kit is a handwritten note on Big Chief paper. The paper reminds her of Henry; the handwriting does not. She reads the note anyway, then because the message has no value to her, she carries it to Rumple. "Here, found this on your table."

She can't put a name to the look that passes over his face as he reads the note, but she's sure she's worn that look a few times herself: the day 7-year-old Henry brought home his plaster hand impression, for instance, and every time he presented her with a crayon-illustrated Mother's Day card. Rumple's message conveys nothing special—just the explanation that Bae and Henry took the baseball—but his eyes shine anyway. There isn't even a "dear" in the salutation or a "love" in the signature line, so what's got Rumple stirred up, she wonders—and then she realizes, maybe the medium is the message. Maybe it's just the fact that his son came here and took that ratty old baseball (although _why_, when he could get a brand-new one for a couple of bucks at Robin Nottingham's sporting goods store—what kind of man would give his son a smelly old hunk of worn out cowhide? This Nealfire must be a real cheapskate.). Or maybe it's that Nealfire bothered to leave a note, the first baby step in opening up a line of communication, maybe. Inspired, maybe, by an early-morning visit from a certain queen.

Regina preens. That's another favor the old imp owes her.

He folds the note and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He then sets his hands upon the glass counter. "Plan B. Remember the scene in _Blazing Saddles_ when the townsfolk build a fake Rock Ridge to trick Hedly Lamarr's thugs?"

"You do realize, don't you," she says, "that movie was meant to be a farce, not an instruction manual on how to win a war."

"Ah." He raises a warning finger. "But it makes my point. Remember our first magic lesson?"

She frowns. "Not really."

"The coin behind the ear?"

She snorts. "That wasn't magic; that was a _trick_! And come to think of it, the fact that you tried to pass it off as a magic lesson was a trick in itself, and not the least bit funny. You still owe me for cheating me out of a proper lesson."

He closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly. "Regina, Regina, Regina. Your impatience still overloads your intelligence, even today. Don't you remember what I told you after I showed you that trick?"

"Something like, 'waste not, want not'?"

"That was part of it. I said, 'Use your magic sparingly, because every use of magic comes with a price, and every act of magic comes with a risk. When you can, use a trick instead."

"Oh yes. You worked both your favorite clichés into that lesson: 'magic comes with a price' and 'perception is everything.'"

"Correct. And that's what _Blazing Saddles_ is all about: whether it's the scene where the sheriff pretends he's abducting himself, or the Waco Kid's fast draw, or the fake Rock Ridge. Perception is everything. So we're going to create a fake magical Storybrooke. When Pan's thugs ride in, they're going to think every last kid, coot and codger here have magic."

"That'll work for all of two minutes."

"All we need is two minutes." He pushes the tiara at Regina. "Start enchanting, Your Majesty." And he starts to walk away.

"Hey, where are you going? Aren't you going to help me with this?"

He shrugs. "All I can do is provide the materials. You're the one with the power, remember?"

**Granny's Diner, 4:15 pm**

Granny hadn't planned on remaining open, considering this could be her last evening in Storybrooke: she figured she and Red had some things to talk over before the meeting. But her "CLOSED" sign doesn't seem to work any better than Gold's, and now she has a restaurant full of hungry customers, anxiously waiting out the last hours before the meeting that will decide Storybrooke's fate—the meeting in which they will take their futures into their own hands for a change. So with a heavy sigh Granny ties on her apron and fires up her stove, and Red picks up her order pad.

The customer bell above the door jingles crazily as five young men and Belle burst in and make a beeline for the counter, where Emma and David are enjoying what may be their last taste of Granny's burgers. Two to-go boxes sit on the counter next to their pitcher of soda: final burgers for the prisoner and Snow, who's guarding him. Emma closes her eyes to savor the last bite.

"The secret's in the pickles," David whispers. "They're homemade."

Emma giggles and rescues a drip of ketchup before it lands on her blouse. And then her peace comes to an end too, for the Lost Boys gather around her and her father. "We found 'em!" Nibs announces to her, then he turns sideways so all the customers can hear: "We found 'em!"

A cheer goes up even before Nibs has defined who "they" are: the Boys have spoken to every citizen in Storybrooke this weekend, so everyone knows who they've been searching for.

"'Them'?" David echoes. "So Mendell _did_ meet up with Pan."

"Yeah," Nibs admits. "They're camped on the west shore of the Neowa, about four miles east of where FM 194 intersects with Highway 5. We left Curly to keep a watch on 'em. But Pan hasn't arrived yet."

"We can't be sure of that," Twin Two objects. "Just because we didn't see him doesn't—"

"Yes, it does," Nibs interrupts. "If he was there, it would be obvious. He needs to make a display of himself."

"We didn't get close enough to count heads, but it looks like there's close to a hundred," Twin One says. "They could have more coming in later."

"Like he said, we weren't close enough to see for sure, but knowing Pan, we're sure he's brought pirates with him."

"Pirates, sorcerers and witches," Twin One says. "We saw scorched patches of earth—signs that they're practicing their fire magic—and severed tree limbs—lightning magic."

"Wait a minute, I thought Pan was supposed to be an enemy of pirates," David objects.

"In the old days, yeah," Nibs says. "Pan the Fourteenth is no respecter of traditions."

"Or laws or morals or decency in any form," Twin One adds.

"Does he command loyalty?" David asks. "Will they fight for him to the death?"

Nibs shrugs. "He commands fear, and sometimes that's better than loyalty. He also has a handle on their greed. Right now they're probably spying on us, already assessing what kind of loot they'll get and divvying it up."

"Optimists, are they?" Emma ponders. "How many of his troops have magic?"

Nibs shrugs again, and Twin Two answers, "You can bet it's a lot more than the four you have."

Twin One elbows his brother in the ribcage. "Than _we_ have."

"Right. We."

Slightly has urged Red off to the side for a moment of personal conversation. The hungry customers will wait: they have dear ones to think about too. "Do you know where you'll go tomorrow, Ruby?"

She wipes her hands on her apron; they're damp, but it's not from carrying glasses and pitchers. She bites her lip nervously. "I don't want to leave here. I mean, I used to: I thought this was the dullest place in the universe, but now that we have to leave, I don't want to."

"I understand. I thought that way about Neverland, once. I changed my mind when I got settled in New York, though."

She leans forward to speak confidentially, though everyone in town knows her secret. "I can't go back. I'm a werewolf."

This comes as no surprise to Slightly. "If you cross the town line, I have it on good authority that your curse will be broken."

"Are you sure?"

"My source never lies." He touches her elbow encouragingly.

"I could go out there, to the camp with Curly. As a wolf. I could blend into the woods; I could listen to them talk. My hearing, in wolf form, is extraordinary."

"That would be a great help."

"Tomorrow, if I cross the town line, I'll forget being Red." She studies the linoleum as if an answer is written in the tiles. "I'll forget Snow and Charming, Geppetto, Jiminy."

"But you'll remember Mary Margaret and David, Marco and Archie."

She giggles. "And Regina."

He chuckles. "Well, who could forget Regina?"

"I'll just be Ruby, a waitress from a small town in Maine." She meets his gaze. "Granny and I can start over."

"I know a lovely little town in upstate New York that could use a diner that serves home cooking."

"That would take money. . . ."

"An investor. I happen to know a man who has a lot of money he won't be needing in the Enchanted Forest. Perhaps he'd like to be the silent partner in a new restaurant."

Ruby's eyes widen. "How would we pay him back?"

"You won't. But he can't take it with him, so. . . .I'll mention it to him tonight."

"Oh, you don't know Mr. Gold. There's no way he'd just _give_ us money."

Slightly considers this. He could debate the question; he's pretty sure the future father/grandfather of six has had a shift in his interests lately and can be persuaded to let go of that which he must leave behind anyway. But time is running short, so Slightly settles for an easier reply: "I'll mention it to _Belle_ tonight."

Ruby lifts her chin, grinning. "In that case, let me invite you to be the first customer at the all new Granny's Diner."

"I'll be there." He kisses her cheek. "That's a promise. Be careful out at the river. If they see you. . . "

"You haven't seen me in wolf form," she says wryly. "I'm an alpha."

"I suspected from the beginning that you're special."

"I'm glad I met you here," she says. "So I can remember you on the other side of the line."

Belle has scoured the diner in hope of finding her beloved here, but no one has seen him today. She checks her phone messages. "_Hello, love, it's about a quarter to four. Regina and I've been working on something but it's not going well, so we're moving on to Plan B, at the shop. But I. . . I think I'm going to try to see Bae before the meeting. It might be my only chance. . . Tomorrow he'll be going back to New York and I. . .should say goodbye, at least. I'll see you at six."_

It's just a gut reaction: she catches herself talking back to the voice mail—"Good luck, sweetheart; I'm proud of you"—and almost doesn't hear the end of his message: "_I love you, Belle." _As she dashes out the back door, she's still talking to the phone: "I love you, too, Rumple." Clicking off the phone, a piece of his message comes back to her and she yelps, "Regina?!"

**Dove's House, 4:15 pm**

Without magic or a car to transport him, Gold is left to do something he's never done before: call a cab. As good as his leg feels now, he could easily walk the six miles to Dove's home, but he can't spare the time. Jack Be Nimble Taxi Service arrives, as promised, in less than five minutes, and as promised, Gold pays double the fare (it's only money, he reminds himself with a chuckle; soon it will be blowin' in the wind).

It's only as he knocks on the front door that Gold realizes he has no idea what to say. He blames Wood Boy for that: he'd poured his heart out to August W. Booth and got kicked in the teeth for it. Aw hell, this is no time for grudges against puppets. He knocks again and tilts his head up so that Dove's security camera can get a good look at him.

Dove opens the door. "Mr. Gold. Please come in." Dove stands aside politely.

Gold enters and turns back to say thank you, but Dove has already vanished into the woodwork. A class act, Dove is; he really must receive a raise. Gold glances around; he's never been here, so, though it's too late now for curiosity about his employee, he checks the place out, subtly, of course. For a tough guy, Dove (or was it the curse that decorated this house?) has sophisticated taste.

A ball of energy flies into the living room and wraps its arms around Gold's waist. He looks down. "Hello, Henry."

"Grampa! You aren't dying any more!"

Gold stifles a chuckle. "I'm well, thank you, and you?"

"I'm okay. Just kind of bored, you know." He whispers conspiratorially, "Pop knows a lot about baseball, but he's not very good at MLB 10."

"Be patient with him." Gold pats Henry's back. "Even a father can learn."

"Even an adult son."

Gold looks up to find Bae standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen. "Even a father with three hundred years of regrets."

Henry steps aside, allowing Gold to walk forward.

"Your leg." Bae gestures.

Gold's shoulders droop a little. Bae's going to think he's still hooked on magic; he'll throw him out without even a "hello." A lie, a lie, Gold's got to come up with a lie quick. But what comes out of his mouth is "Magic. Regina—I allowed her to—"

Bae nods, and it's his turn for slumped shoulders.

Gold sighs and, head lowered, turns around, starts for the front door. "Well." Damn it, what's happened to his smooth eloquence? Centuries of searching and dreaming and hoping and worrying, and it all comes down to "Well."

No it doesn't. He readjusts the shawl across his shoulders: at the least, he won't go until he's given this cloth to Bae and explained its significance. Annoyed, he comes back around and walks up to Bae, and stops only when he's within a handshake's length. "Bae, I'm not leaving until we've talked this out."

Bae's body shapes into a block and his chin rises; he's feeling backed into a corner, Gold realizes, but there's no time for delicacy: it's now or never, so Gold will spar with him, if that's what it takes. He'd rather take the punches and back away bruised than to duck and run. "I understand if you can't forgive me, but wouldn't it give you some peace, to tell me what's on your mind? It's our last chance, son."

"No."

"You won't talk to me?"

The skin around Bae's eyes relaxes. It's a tiny sign, but a hopeful one. "No, I mean it's not our last chance. I'm going back to the Enchanted Forest, to be a father to my son."

Gold holds his breath, hoping for the phrase that doesn't come: _and to be a son to my father_. They stand there in silence, each of them searching for words, both of them knowing what needs to be said but not certain how to begin.

"I guess I'd better put the kettle on." Bae steps back into the kitchen and motions for Gold to follow.

"Thank you." Gold releases his breath. It's a start, and once he's started, Gold can be a very persistent man, as two hundred years of searching have proven. They _will_ talk. They'll say as much as can be said in the 90 minutes they have left, but there are words that are weighing so heavily on his chest that Gold has to get them out now. His hand shoots out to grab his son's arm. "Bae, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Bae rubs his nose. "Me too, Dad." He pulls the old man in for a hug.


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39

** A/N. U2's "Sometimes You Can't Make it on Your Own" inspired this chapter.**

* * *

**Gold's Shop, 4:25 pm**

Hoping to catch her beloved in his workroom and offer him encouraging words before he drops in on (confronts?) his son, Belle comes in through the back door, unlocking it with her own set of keys. The radio is on, tuned to a pop station, and through the store a woman's voice twines, singing along with the song, not in tune and not in rhythm, but at least she has the lyrics right.

"Hello?" Belle calls out, not wanting to give Regina a start (lest she wheel around and turn Belle into a grasshopper or something).

The singer and the radio cease production. "Ms. French, is that you?"

Belle comes around the curtain to find Regina hovering over one the display counters. Every counter is cluttered with stuff that Belle recognizes as having formerly been inside the counters. Gold is gone.

"He stepped out," Regina says. Then she dismisses Belle by turning away from her and concentrating on a beer stein. Her hands glow as she touches it, and when she takes her hands away the stein glows too.

Belle watches with dread and, admittedly, fascination, though certainly she's watched Gold cast many a spell, mix many a potion; though she has usually despised the reason, she's found the act curious, a blend of the most modern thinking of the magic realms, a science of their own in fact, and the most ancient lore. Casting can also be a most elegant thing, a dance of the hands, and Belle has always found her beloved's hands beautiful.

But it's Regina who's casting. Regina the abductor, the imprisoner, the commander of tortures physical and mental in this world and the last. Regina who drove Rumplestiltskin near madness with her lies, whose curse (yes, and Rumple's; Belle can't let him off the hook, though he had no idea what was being done to her) left Belle bereft of identity for twenty-nine years, then robbed her again of her memory, and then, as if amnesia wasn't enough torture, created Lacey. Belle's stomach churns just remembering. And here they are, the queen and her victim, face to face, and alone.

And alone, except for Regina's magic, which could easily bring Lacey back. Belle sucks in a breath. Three mutually exclusive thoughts vie for her attention: to run and protect herself; to demand an apology which will never come, but the demand itself will prove Belle is unafraid; or to grab Regina by the hair and thrust her face into the glass cabinet.

Belle is not a coward, a fool or a roller derby queen, so she dismisses each thought in turn. But she won't leave. This is her beloved's shop, at least for one more day, and she has right to be here; more importantly, she is a human being, and she has right to stand against her torturer and refuse to be intimidated.

Regina has moved on to a necklace and is enchanting it. "I don't know how long he'll be. If you want to leave a message. . . ?"

Belle watches the queen's hands imbue the necklace with a burst of magic. She notices something she's never seen before: a slight shaking in those hands. Belle's gaze travels to Regina's face, and there she finds a spot of red in each cheek. The magic, perhaps, is affecting the queen. But Belle has seen Regina cast spells many times, and always with steady hands and an unmarred complexion.

Regina is nervous.

Belle smiles then, smugly. It's not that Regina won't look her in the eye—it's that Regina can't. Just a crack in the façade, but it's a beginning: Regina feels _guilty_.

Regina, guilty? Nah.

Belle decides to push it. "No." She walks around the counter so she's directly in front of Regina. "I'll wait here. I understand you're working on something to stop Pan?"

"It won't stop him. If this idea works at all, it will slow him down for a minute or two."

"Long enough for the portal to be opened?"

"And the fail safe to be activated."

Regina has finished the necklace and moves on to a scabbard. Belle studies the rows of objects on the counters; some of them carry a faint aura, barely visible, but she thinks she can smell it. Back in the Dark Castle, she could always smell Rumple's magic when it was first released, just for the briefest moment. It had a distinct scent of wood smoke and ashes, and beneath that, the scent of his skin.

All these things, these hundreds of things, have lived with him these thirty years, have been closer to him than any human has. Rumplestiltskin still loves things. But she smiles because she knows where he is now: the fact that he's with his son, not his stuff, proves he loves people too, three of them (and she suspects Emma's growing on him), far more than his things.

Belle raises her head and Regina glances at her, perhaps expecting a challenge. Belle stares back at her. If Rumple can work up the courage to ask Bae's forgiveness, she can certainly work up the courage to face her persecutor. "Let me help."

The queen's mouth falls open. Just for a moment.

**Gold's Shop, 5:45 pm**

A Yukon pulls up to the curb just as Belle and Regina are struggling to fit ten crates of enchanted trinkets into the latter's Mercedes-Benz. Regina has just decided to transport the crates by magic when the silent and very tall Mr. Dove appears without warning at her side and takes one of the crates out of her tiny trunk. "What—" she begins, but Baelfire comes up behind Dove and picks up another crate. "We'll take those. Mr. Dove's got plenty of room."

"Hi, Mom!" Henry pops up and gives Regina a quick hug. "Hi, Belle!"

"Hi yourself, Henry. Will you take this box for me?" Belle slides a cardboard box into his arms before going back into the shop for another.

"Is Henry going to the meeting too?" Regina looks around for someone to scowl at, but Bae and Dove are both busy loading the SUV. "I don't think that's a good idea. He's just a child."

"All the more reason he should have a voice in the proceedings. His education is to be considered." Regina twists about to find Gold behind her. Something's a bit off, she thinks as she considers whether to argue with him: he's dressed the same as he was an hour ago, yet he looks as though he's just arisen from a long nap—or used some of that "Gray Away" gunk for his hair. But what sort of narcissist would spend his last hour before a declaration of war napping or dying his hair?

"It's too late now to find a sitter," Regina grumbles; she glares at Bae's back; this casual approach to child rearing brings the man's qualifications for parenting into question. Once everyone has settled into their new homes in the Enchanted Forest (Regina will, of course, return to the Spiral Castle; whatever condition it's in, a little magic will clean it up) a custody hearing will be the next order of business. "Has he even had his dinner?"

"Regina," Gold cautions, "don't start." He bends to pick up a crate and his face prepares a wince—but as he straightens, his ankle supports the extra weight without complaint. His face relaxes and he slides the crate into the Yukon.

"Rumple!" Belle thrusts the crate she's carrying into Bae's arms, dashes into Gold's arms and plants a kiss on his eager mouth—and in return, he lifts her and swings her in a circle. They both laugh like children playing tag and Belle proclaims, "Your ankle! Your thigh! Your black eyes have healed!"

"Regina did it," he says with a little apprehension. "Magic." He steels himself for a dressing down, but she says, "I'm so happy to see you out of pain." She touches Regina's arm to catch her attention. "Regina, thank you."

The queen shrugs. "His injuries were interfering with the work."

The comment elicits one of Belle's patented I-see-right-through-you head tilts. "Thank you just the same."

They finish loading the SUV and Rumple lifts Belle into the back seat (_lifts_! He hasn't been able to do that for her since the Dark Castle days), then slides in beside her, and Henry finishes the row. Dove holds the front passenger side door open and offers his hand to Regina. "Will you ride with us, Ms. Mills, or do you prefer to take your own car?"

Regina isn't expecting this. Her first instinct is to wonder if this is a trick, but no one's laughing: Belle and Rumple are preoccupied with each other and Bae and Henry are yakking about "Babe Ruth's ERA" (she's surprised to find them so interested in women's rights, but she resents Bae for teaching her son to call a woman "babe").

"Ms. Mills?" Dove prompts.

Regina adjusts her skirt and with a curt nod allows Dove to hand her up into the SUV. In a halting voice she says, "Thank you, Dove."

Out of the corner of his eye, Bae watches and eavesdrops on his father and Belle. He has only a shadow of a memory of his mother, and after that, the only women in his father's life, and consequently his, were neighbors and an aunt called Maerwynn, who would stay with Bae when Rumple went to market. Then, and later, after the Dark curse, Rumple showed no interest in friendship, let alone romance, so it's jarring to see him now, at his advanced age, holding hands and speaking in soft tones—making himself _vulnerable_ to this woman, as he's never been before. Bae might be concerned for his father's welfare: a long-alone, wealthy man pursuing, or being pursued by, a much younger woman would set off alarms for any son. But after their heart-to-heart talk, Bae can't imagine anyone he'd feel safer entrusting his father to, nor anyone more capable of striding that delicate balance between feistiness and infinite patience that a life with Rumplestiltskin demands.

It's not the spinner or the Dark One or the pawnbroker, Bae thinks, giving of himself so freely to the rather shy woman; Bae doesn't know this man at all. He thinks he might like to.

**Council Chambers, City Hall, 5:55 pm**

Snow and David are already on the scene, and in fact have been for nearly a half-hour. For people who claim to care nothing for politics, they are nevertheless wise in its ways: working different ends of the chambers, they've made certain to shake the hand of everyone who's walked in; they have a talent for making each individual feel he or she is the most important person in the room. By the time Snow and David have wandered up to the front of the room, they have a clear sense of the mood and a pretty good idea how to turn it around. They've also already won everyone's confidence that there's a plan, a workable plan, a plan with a choice. That's something they both know instinctively: where there is choice, there will be thought, discussion, an engagement of the brain that can override the hasty overreactions of the heart.

Something else they both know instinctively is that a unified front from the leaders is necessary for public confidence. Any disagreements between them were hammered out in private before the first citizen walked in—and Snow has had a chance to overcome her surprise in learning that David has not only changed his mind but is actually taking Rumplestiltskin's advice, trusting his words. Once she regains her equilibrium, she thinks that for David to say that Rumple is right must be a sign that, well, Rumple is right and there really is no choice.

She allows David, then, to start the discussion, trusting that his change of heart will lead the way for others to do the same. When Rumple and his family arrive, she and David make their way to the podium and David calls for attention. He doesn't turn the microphone on; his voice is strong enough to carry the room and carry the day.

"Thank you, everyone, for coming. We have a big decision to make, the most important one in our community's life together. As you know, there's an army gathering on the west bank of the Neowa, led by a man I'm told has no scruples, no mercy, and no hesitation to destroy anything that gets in his way. His minions claim he only intends to rid this world of magic, but his history shows his ambitions go much farther. The fact that he's sent a hundred demons of every ilk ahead of him shows that he intends to kill. From the way he's treated his vanquished enemies in the past, we believe surrender is not an option.

"So that leaves us with two possibilities. We can engage him in war. We can fight for our town, and if we defeat him, send him back to his own world, humiliated, dethroned. Or we can evacuate."

Snow joins her husband. "We can get the children and the elderly out first, and the rest of us will follow. We'll go back to the Enchanted Forest and rebuild, start new lives, free of curses."

"That's the coward's way out!" Leroy shouts. "I want to go back home same as you do, but not with my tail tucked between my legs. A man would stay and fight!"

"It's not just this town we have to think about," Archie reminds everyone. "What about the rest of this world? We can't leave it to Pan. It's our fault he's here—"

"It ain't our fault!" Leroy denies. "_We_ didn't bring him here. We didn't bring ourselves here, remember?" He pushes through the crowd and walks to the front. "We were cursed, and she's the one who cursed us."

He points to Regina, who glares back at him, watching the crowd through the corners of her eyes. Dove shifts his body partially in front of hers, a warning to anyone who might lash out. It's a sweet, old-fashioned gesture, Regina thinks, though quite unnecessary: with her magic she's much more powerful than he is, than anyone in this chamber is.

"The first shot that's fired, it should be her goin' down, not any of us," Leroy pushes. "And the second shot, that should be for the coward who came up with an evacuation plan." His finger moves to Regina's left, where Gold stands.

"Turning against each other won't accomplish—" Snow begins.

But Granny interrupts her. "The same one that created the curse to begin with. The cause of all our problems is right there, folks. And he's gonna keep on causing us problems if we let him."

Heads turn. So far no one's making a move, but Gold narrows his eyes in warning—and wishes he had his cane.

"How do we know he's not working for Pan?" Someone suggests.

"How do we know Pan's not working for him?" Leroy corrects.

"Everyone, calm down," David urges.

"You're wasting time," Gold declares. "You can have my hide next week. Tonight, you need to prepare to protect your families."

"Maybe we can't do anything about Regina, but your magic is gone, Rumplestiltskin. You're on our level now. Throwing you to the wolves—sorry, Red—might just be the first step in doing that." Leroy takes a step forward.

Gold remains perfectly still, but Bae sets a protective hand on his arm and whispers, "Let me take some of the punches for you tonight." Gold blinks, glancing at him, and Bae nods before walking up to Leroy.

"You call my father a coward," Bae begins, thrusting his finger into Leroy's chest. "Let me ask you this, buddy-boy: would a coward let himself die of poisoning when the antidote's just inches away from him, rather than allow his magic to fall into the hands of a power-grubbing psycho like Cora? Would a coward devote two centuries searching for his lost child? Would a coward cross over the town line to try to find his son, knowing that it meant leaving his magic behind and risking losing his memory? Would a coward stay here when he could've made a deal with Regina for a magic bean and gotten the hell out of here?" Bae glances at his father, and Gold sees something in Bae's eyes that he hasn't seen in centuries: pride.

As Belle, overcome, leans her head against her beloved's arm and Henry closes ranks between his adoptive mother and his Grampa, Gold realizes that the power he chased, through magic in the old world and through money in this one, is an illusion. The true power is here. Everything that matters is right here with him. He squeezes Henry's shoulder as he mouths "Thank you" to Bae, and then he kisses the top of Belle's head.

Bae continues, addressing the crowd rather than Leroy, "You know, the sensible thing would've been for my father to say, 'Screw you' and come with me to New York, cross that town line and forget he ever had anything to do with the rest of you. But I guess he's not very sensible, because you know what he was doing today? He was working, making it possible for the rest of you to get back home safe. So call him stubborn as hell, 'cause he is; call him an asshole, because he can be, no doubt about that; but if you call him a coward one more time, dwarf, I'm gonna go medieval upside your head."

Emma thrusts herself between the two would-be combatants. "One more word and you'll both be sharing a cot with Hook tonight." She pushes Leroy toward one end of the chamber. "Get back there with your family." Then she pushes Bae toward the other. "And you get back there with yours." When the men comply, she nods at her parents. "Go ahead, Mom, Dad."

David grips the podium; the look on his face suggests he'd just as soon throw it. "There's nothing cowardly about this evacuation plan, and in fact, it's how Snow and I are going to vote. We think it's going to save lives—lives of innocent people out there who don't have any idea this town exists, and our own lives."

Murmurs ripple through the crowd, and now alternate voices are heard, voices of those whom the Charmings won over before the meeting began. David gives them a moment to make the sales pitch for him before explaining, "The plan is, we're going to evacuate through a portal created by the magic beans the dwarves grew. A few of us will remain behind to hold off Pan's army. And then, when most have safely arrived in the Enchanted Forest, the rest of us are going to retreat so Pan follows us right down Main Street—and then we're going to activate the fail safe that will destroy Storybrooke, and then we're hightailing it out of here."

"How are you going to decide who stays?" Sneezy asks.

"Volunteer basis," David answers. "No questions asked, though we do want to make certain that all the children are evacuated before any fighting starts."

Snow adds, "Those who wish to form a defensive line with David and Emma and me, you should know we'll be fighting fire with fire. Mr. Gold and Regina have come up with a way for us to use magic on a temporary basis, just enough to defend ourselves and maybe startle the enemy. They'll teach us how it works."

"So let's make it clear what we're voting on: like Leroy says, we can make this an all-out war. Decide Storybrooke is our home and defend it with all we've got," David surmises. "Or we can evacuate through a portal, back to the Enchanted Forest, taking Storybrooke and Pan down behind us."

"Some of you have already indicated that you want to stay in this world," Snow continues. "That's your choice too. Once we've set off the trigger, you can cross the town line. The Lost Boys will help you get to New York, and from there you can figure out where you want to go."

"It won't be easy in the forest," Emma admits. "We'll be eating a lot of chimera at first. And the place is a shambles; we'll have to rebuild at the same time we're plowing and planting and hunting. But there are people still living in the forest; they'll help us."

"We remember what to do," Snow says. "It's what we were born for. We'll be okay."

"It's time to vote," David announces. "If you had asked me yesterday, I would've said hell yes, we go to war. But I would've been wrong. Our children and our grandchildren are going to need us in the forest. Sometimes the most courageous thing you can do is to put aside your rage and do what's best for your children. So Snow and I vote in favor of evacuation." He raises his hand in the air, and Snow does the same. "Who else votes to evacuate?"

Belle laces her fingers through Gold's, and they raise their enjoined hands. Bae has come back to stand with his family, and he too raises his hand.

Emma weaves through the crowd, counting those whose hands remain lowered. Her task is easy, especially when Leroy grunts, "I'm a sergeant of the royal guard. I stand with my queen."

"One nay," Emma announces from the floor.

Eyebrows shoot up. "Who's the one?"

Regina shrugs her shoulders. "Not a 'nay,' but an abstention. Under the circumstances, I didn't think my vote would count."

"Your vote matters as much as mine or anyone else's," Snow assures her.

Leroy growls, "Get your hand up, sister."

Regina blinks. "Very well, then." She raises her hand.

David nods slowly. "Those who want to join the front line, meet with me and Snow up front—"

Now, for the first time, Gold speaks out, calling over the racket that's ensued as people start to make their plans. "Before we adjourn, may I have the floor for a moment?"

David thrusts his fingers in his mouth and whistles, and the racket dies down. Gold releases Belle's hand and moves up to the podium, ignoring the eye daggers.

But they listen, because however much they resent him, he has knowledge they need to survive tomorrow, and it's only the need to impart information that drives him up to the front now, subjecting himself to ridicule. "I want to remind you about the perceived value of possessions. . . a subject you may agree I'm an authority on. It will be tempting to take that which is familiar, that which we value in this world, but much of what we prize here will have no use there. We must bring what is essential to survival: tools, medicine, knives, work clothes; livestock, two of each, like Noah's ark. Dogs and cats will be valuable. Nothing requiring electricity or batteries, since it will be years before we have such luxuries. Guns, jewelry and finery will be meaningless. Money won't even make good kindling."

"Well, that pretty much wipes you out, don't it?" Leroy laughs.

"Indeed," Gold agrees. "As much as it pains me, I shall replace Giorgio Armani with Levi Strauss."

The president of Storybrooke Bank, Ms. Silver, speaks up. "I can transfer the holdings for all our customers to the bank's headquarters in New York. If you choose, you can sign over your account to someone who's staying behind, or if you want to try to take your money with you to the Enchanted Forest, we'll cash you out, tonight. It's up to you—but for me and my family, we'll be taking things we can actually use in the forest. I'm signing our money over to a charity."

"As will Belle and I," Gold says. "And we shall be investing in the establishment of a new business in upstate New York."

Slightly scratches his head. He hasn't had a chance to talk to Belle or Gold yet about the new Granny's: how did they find out? Then he shrugs, for sometimes his boss works in mysterious ways.

Gold continues, "We need a safe place to open the portal, a place large enough to gather."

"I figured we'd do it here." David indicates the council chambers.

"May I offer an alternative? A more convenient choice would be the library, the tunnel beneath which already leads to the Enchanted Forest. And we will need books."

"Yes, books," Snow agrees. "For schools."

"We have books back there," David remarks.

"Not likely," Emma shakes her head. "None of the buildings are still standing."

"Even if the books survived, they won't be of the kind we need: books about harnessing electricity, building sanitation systems, designing medical equipment, creating pharmaceuticals." Gold glances at Whale. "Science. I recommend bringing all engineering manuals, medical guides and the like to the library tonight for inclusion. And the easiest way to transport them is to drop the entire library through the portal."

"I agree," Snow says.

"Then the library is where we'll open the portal."

"One more suggestion, please," Gold continues. "For our line of defense to work, we need for Pan to believe we have magic oozing out of every pore; otherwise, he'll simply trample us. People with that sort of power would demonstrate no fear, even with the enemy at the gate."

David grins, catching on. "Especially with the enemy at the gate. No weeping and cowering. People who expect to win would spend the night before celebrating."

"In the open, for Pan's spies to see."

"Allow me," Granny calls out. "I need to empty my iceboxes anyway. Folks, party tonight at the diner, in one hour."

"We'll use that opportunity for strategizing," David says.

As the meeting adjourns, Ruby squeezes through the crowd to the front. She wishes a moment alone with her dear friend Snow; it may be their last. But first, she has something that needs to be said. "Mr. Gold?"

"Ms. Lucas?"

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. It was Belle's idea. Just came to her out of the blue."

"I don't know what to say. We were worried how we'd make it out there, you know, no money. We'd think of it as a loan, pay you back if we could."

He shrugs. "Well then, think of it as the return of your rent payment on a lease that's being terminated."

Abruptly she leans forward and kisses his cheek. "Mr. Gold, may I have the first dance tonight?"

His eyes widen in surprise, not so much for her invitation but for the realization that for the first time in centuries, he _can_ dance tonight. "It will be an honor, Ms. Lucas."


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter 40

**A/N. The inspiration for the chapter was U2's "Walk On," which reminds me so much of Bae.**

* * *

**Sheriff's Office 6:45 pm**

"We have an hour before the party," Snow points out to her family. "We could go home and pack."

"I need to figure out what to do with Hook," Emma frets. "It'd be inhumane to just leave him in jail when we break the trigger."

"It'd be stupid, though, to let him go before then," David argues. "He'd either run off to join the pirates or he'd try to kill Rumplestiltskin again."

"I don't think we have to worry about that. Pan is Hook's blood enemy," Snow points out. "And with a hundred magic-carrying thugs on that side, and a highly pissed off Rumple on this one, I'd say Hook is screwed."

"Yeah, but we're going to have to haul him to the forest with us. What do we do with him then?"

"We can always stick him in Rumple's cell," David suggests. When Snow swats him, he says defensively, "Well, it'd save us having to build a new cell."

"I've been in that cell," Emma grumbles. "It would be kinder to let the Lost Boys take him to downtown Detroit and dump him."

* * *

Father and daughter stand on either side of the jail cell, their arms folded across their chests. From his seat on the cot, Hook stares up at them, trying to smile irresistibly. "Oh, I can definitely see the resemblance, Your Royal Highness. She's every bit your daughter."

"Here's the thing, Hook: twelve miles from here, Peter Pan and his army of hundreds are whooping it up around campfires, just waiting for tomorrow so they can attack us."

Hook drops the act. "Give me my hook and my sword and let me out."

David leans against the bars and crosses one foot over the other. "Why? So you can run—or join him?"

The captain is deadly serious. "So I can kill him."

Emma sniffs. "What's with you and killing people who are twice as powerful as you? You got a death wish?"

"For Pan, I do. As much as I hate Rumple, that's how much I hate that pimple-faced, wet-nosed brat in tights."

"I better keep you away from Batman and Robin comics."

But Hook won't be kidded, especially when he doesn't understand the joke. "I know Pan, better than any of you. Let me out and give me a sword; I'll take care of him for you."

"Don't be ridiculous," David snaps. "That option isn't even on the table. What we're trying to decide is whether to take you with us when we evacuate or dump you in Detroit."

"If we take you with us, we're gonna need proof that you won't turn around and kill us. A token of good faith," Emma suggests.

"You already have my ship and my hook. I have nothing else in this world."

"No, I meant information. Tell us about Pan."

"Gladly. What do you want to know?"

"Everything," Emma says. "Who he is, what he can do, what motivates him."

David cuts to the chase. "His weaknesses. What will stop him."

"Pull up a chair, then. I have many a tale to tell." Hook crosses his legs, making himself comfortable.

Emma suggests to David, "Let's get Gold in here to compare notes." To Hook, she says, "If he can corroborate what you tell us, I'll let you out. You're not getting your hook back."

**Storybrooke General, 6:45 pm**

Head Nurse Kelly is organizing a team consisting of every spare pair of hands in the hospital, from the custodians to the administrators: they are going through every room in the building, systematically sorting and packing what's to be taken to the Enchanted Forest. "Much as I'd like to, we can't take our generators; it'd just be too risky transporting gasoline through the portal. But as soon as we get to the forest, we've got to go to work on developing a source of energy. It'll be like working a MASH unit, but without people shooting at us."

"But with the ogres," Whale quips.

"Let's get to work. We'll get started now and come back after the party; work through the night if we have to."

Five young men walk up. "We're don't know much about medical supplies," Bae admits, "but we do know a lot about packing and hauling. We're at your disposal."

**Belle's Apartment, 6:45 pm**

Belle throws a suitcase on her bed and stands before her closet. She remembers her time on the road, chasing the yaoguai. She knows what she'll need to survive in the forest, and she starts to pack.

Deep down, though, she harbors a hope that the Dark Castle escaped the destruction. Even without Rumple's magic to run it, the castle would still be a whole lot more comfortable than sleeping on the ground.

Deep, deep down, all things considered, she'd rather be in New York.

**Mayor's Mansion, 6:45 pm**

An open suitcase on her bed, Regina stands before her closet, rifling through her outfits. She must own at least twenty skirt-and-blazer sets and twice as many blouses, but not one garment that can be safely washed in a river. She owns not one pair of dungarees, not one pair of hiking boots, not one (shudder) flannel or cotton shirt. But what does it matter? She's the queen: she's supposed to dress the part. It's not as though she'll be planting vegetables or chopping wood.

She gives up on her closet. If her royal gowns back home are in disrepair, she'll simply hand them over to a seamstress. Or better yet, conjure new clothes.

She crosses to Henry's bedroom. In less than fifteen minutes she's packed his clothes, except for that darling little three-piece suit he wore at her last post-election party. He's probably outgrown it anyway. She packs a few of his toys, disturbed to find how many of them are electronic. She comes across the teddy bear Henry slept with every night until he started school and considered himself too old for cuddly toys. Someday Henry will have a child of his own and that child will need a teddy bear. She shrinks it to the size of a sock so it will fit into his suitcase. And then, rethinking the situation, she returns to her closet, waves her hand and with a groan of regret, changes her pencil skirts and silk blouses to (shudder) denim and cotton. In no godsforsaken land, however, will she wear flannel: she _is_ the queen.

**Library, 7:45 pm**

Belle snaps on the fluorescent lights. Regina runs her eyes over the packed shelves. She remembers the state these shelves were in, the last time she was here—assisting the savior in slaying Maleficent. "A shame. You put so much work into preparing this library for an opening that never came." When Belle doesn't bite at the bait, Regina asks, "So which ones do we take?"

Belle begins slapping Post-It notes on the shelves she's designating as essential. Clearly, the selection is a difficult process for her, not intellectually, for the Dewey Decimal System has arranged the science, technology and medicine books into groups, but emotionally. Her hand lingers longingly on the books in the 200s, mythology and spirituality; in the 800s: poetry and theater; in the 900s, travel and history. She sighs as she walks through Adult Fiction, with a second glance at the Westerns Rumple loves to read at bedtime (how can she leave behind Elmer Kelton, Johnny D. Boggs and Stephen Overholser, knowing how much enjoyment they've given him?). And she can't even bring herself to enter the children's department.

"Oh for gods' sakes," Regina mumbles, and with a wave of her hand every book in the building vanishes.

"Where—what did you do with them?" Belle sputters, her face reddening with anger. "Regina, bring them back!"

Regina simply points at a single wooden crate in the center of the floor. Belle peers inside to find neat piles of shrunken books, now the size of quarters. "Temporary spell; it will release in seven days, which should give you enough time to transport them to the Dark Castle, if it still stands." Regina folds her arms and looks around. "If we're going to fit three hundred suitcase-carrying people in here, plus assorted animals, we're going to have to get rid of that circulation desk."

"Hmm. Regina, do you think you could power generators with magic?" Belle reaches for her cell phone.

"Piece of cake, honey."

**Sheriff's Office, 8 pm**

As they walk out into the cool night, the sheriff, her deputy and the pawnbroker can hear bells ringing in the distance. "The convent," David identifies the source of the music. "The nuns have begun the celebration."

"Hope they're saying their prayers too," Emma says dryly. She turns to Gold. "Well? Was Hook telling the truth?"

"What do your instincts say, Sheriff Swan?"

She thinks about it a moment before nodding. "Yeah. I think so."

"I've dealt with several Pans over the centuries. I always had to work through third parties: Neverland is a difficult place to get to, even more difficult to leave, so I avoided it. It's strange to think," Gold says dreamily, "one of the Pans with whom I dealt may have even been my own son. But as for Hook—yes, I believe he's given us honest information. And now I have a question for you, Sheriff."

"That's fair, I guess."

"What are your plans for Hook? As I'm sure you can appreciate, my son and I have a vested interest."

"He's coming with us."

Gold walks away, replying over his shoulder, "I hope he justifies your trust, Ms. Swan. I truly do."

**Granny's Diner, 9 pm**

The party is in full swing, the music hot and raucous, the tea (no beers tonight) ice cold, the laughter loud enough to reach across the river. Or at least, that's what David would like to think. A phone call from Curly at 8:30 confirms that Ruby's checked in and spies are indeed observing the goings-on from a distance and the enemy leadership is perplexed, eventually coming to the conclusion that Storybrooke must be inhabited by fatalistic Epicureans.

Pan has yet to arrive.

Crouching beside one of the picnic tables on Granny's front lawn, Gold is teaching his fourth group of the night how to extract the drops of magic Regina has instilled into their personal objects. As Henry follows along behind him, delivering the former pawnshop goods in his Radio Flyer (left over from his kid days, he explains with all seriousness), Gold repeats his favorite clichés over and over. "To use even the small amount of magic instilled in this object, you must surrender something in return. Pay up front and magic won't charge you late fees." Then he presents a pair of scissors and instructs, "Clip off a lock of your hair. An insignificant price for you, but it will satisfy magic."

There really is no need for Gold to crouch on the damp ground: he could as just as well sit on the bench beside his students. He's crouching simply because he can: his ankle doesn't complain. And with Bae and Belle restored to him, he has forgiven himself sufficiently that he no longer requires the physical pain to mask his emotional pain.

As for his students, he is impressed, not with their talents—none of them show a knack for magic—but with their numbers. Of the 120 Storybrookers who have chosen to return to the Enchanted Forest, 64 have volunteered for the front line. Families are being split up, with one spouse joining Storybrooke's guard while the other escorts the children through the portal. If this were a traditional fight, David would have turned away most of these volunteers, but this is a hit-and-run mission employing magic, so strong backs and youth are not requirements for these soldiers.

Although most approach Gold with trepidation, even suspicion, they acknowledge his wealth of knowledge of all things magic, and therefore accept him as their teacher. He doesn't bother to try to charm them or impress them: what he's teaching will save lives; that's credential enough. Later this evening, when Gold has finished his work, David and Snow will begin theirs, organizing these volunteers into squads of fighters.

Gold finishes with his fourth group and stands to stretch. Before the next group arrives, Granny waggles her finger at him. He pretends not to notice, but she makes matters worse by calling his name across the lawn. He gives up, walks up to the entrance to take his punishment. "What, are you going to charge me for using the picnic tables now?"

She has to raise her voice to be heard over the music. "A little birdie told me you were asking for steak while you were in the hospital and never did get it. Here, saved a table inside for you." She nudges him inside. He doesn't want to go—the music hurts his ears—but she did say "steak" and it's going to be a long, long time before beef becomes available in the Enchanted Forest. Despite the noise and the crowds, he's going to hope it's a sirloin and savor every bite.

It is. And keeping it company is a serving of asparagus with hollandaise sauce, escalloped potatoes, a crescent roll (Granny's cook makes them from scratch each morning), and a pitcher of iced tea. "You clean your plate and there'll be a scoop of chocolate ice cream for dessert," Granny advises.

He's a bit perplexed: the server has just laid a second, identical plate across from his. A server in a blue lace dress, her auburn hair swinging as she pours glasses of tea—"Belle!"

She can't hear him, of course, so he abandons Granny and takes the waitress in his arms. He kisses her, then eyes the steak. "It's all right, Rumple," she laughs. "I'm hungry too."

They speak of business as they enjoy their meal: there's just too much to do before morning. Gold expresses confidence in his students' progress, and in reply Belle pushes her half-eaten steak aside (earning a frown from Gold, who hates to see a fine cut of meat go to waste). "My turn," Belle announces.

"For?"

"Teach me how to extract magic from my special object." On the table she sets a necklace, a petite pearl on a delicate gold chain; it stirs soft memories in him, for she wore this necklace, an inheritance from her mother, every day that she lived in the Dark Castle.

"Belle—" he starts to object.

"No," she interrupts. "You're not going to send me away this time. I understand that you want to protect me, but have you forgotten where you found me when we first met?"

He's miserable as she pries it out of him: "In a war room, with generals and battle maps."

"You spied on me beforehand, didn't you?"

"How do you know that?" He blinks in surprise.

"It's your modus operandi, isn't it? And when my father asked your price, you didn't hesitate. You didn't even look around to see what he might have to trade. So admit it, you'd been watching me."

"Yes." He pokes at his asparagus, avoiding her gaze.

"You knew what kind of person I was before you selected me."

"Yes. Well, I had to be sure: a life with the Dark One would break most people."

She folds her hands, signaling her victory. "If I can handle the Dark One and ogres, don't you think I've earned my place on the front line with you?"

He pushes his plate aside, giving up on his long-awaited steak, for the time being. He hands her his scissors. "Very well, then. A snip of your hair to pay for the magic."

She accepts the challenge in typical Belle fashion: she picks up the scissors and walks away.

"Belle? Where are you going?"

"I'll be back in bit. Finish your steak; you've earned it."

Somewhere into his third glass of tea, he takes her advice and finishes the steak. For the last of its kind, it's well worth the wait. As he's polishing off the promised ice cream, the pair of scissors is laid on the table before him. He glances up, then glances up again. "Belle! A snip, I said; you've—" he gulps, reaching up to touch the tresses he's so long admired—the tresses that now end at her jaw line. "You've overpaid," he finishes lamely.

"My father always encouraged his soldiers to keep their hair cut short, so it wouldn't get in the way," Belle says, then she tosses her head. "It feels _great_ to be free of all that hair." She resumes her seat and takes a bite of her steak, now cold. "I'm ready. Teach me."

**Granny's Diner, 10 pm**

Gold's voice is shot by the time he's concluded his magic lessons. Finally it's time for David to round up the fighters and strategize. Henry's wagon is now empty, and Emma is declaring it's his bedtime, but uncharacteristically, Henry bluntly refuses to budge. "I need to be in on this," he declares. The picnic tables are being pulled into a rectangle, maps are being spread atop them, fighters are taking their seats, even Blue and Regina have joined the discussion, and Henry plops himself down among them.

"Henry." Emma's tired and stressed, and Henry's too old, she thinks, for temper tantrums.

"I need to be here. This town has _four_ mages. They've got a hundred. You can't afford to leave me out."

"Emma is right, Henry," Regina says—it's probably the first and last time she'll ever utter that particular phrase. "You need your rest."

"And if you think you're going to stay behind and fight—"

"You're fighting. My dad's fighting. Both my grandpas and my grandmas are fighting. Even Archie's fighting."

"You're eleven years old," David reminds him, as if that should settle everything.

Snow adds, "You'll be leaving with Grace and her parents tomorrow. They'll take you through the portal. They'll take good care of you and we'll catch up very soon."

"We'll be right behind you, kid," David says.

"I'm counting on you to get the baseball through," Bae tries.

"I wish everyone would stop talking to me like I'm a baby." Henry pins Gold with a piercing look. "You know I have to be there. Tell them."

Gold licks his lips as the entire Charming-Rumple clan turn on him to solve this problem, preferably without hurting Henry's feelings. "Your bravery is truly commendable, young man, but—"

"You need me. My magic is powerful; you said it yourself."

"That's true, but it's also unformed, and—" Gold suddenly jerks back, staring at Belle, who's seated across from him. His mouth drops open, and so does everyone else's.

Belle twists about, trying to understand why she's become the object of so much interest. "What?" As she twists, her hair swings about her shoulders. She reaches up a hand and grabs a handful of thick locks—shoulder length locks. "What's happening?"

"Is that long enough?" Henry smirks. "I can make it longer."

"What's going on?" Emma demands, then catching on: "All right, Regina, stop playing games with Belle's hair."

"It's not her; it's me," Henry confesses. "Grampa was wishing Belle hadn't cut her hair."

Gold nods, still licking his lips.

"See? I don't have to be on street with you," Henry suggests. "I can be inside somewhere, where they can't even see me, and all you have to do is think the magic, and I'll do it. Look! Hold out your hand."

"Henry. . . ." But Gold spreads his fingers despite his protest. A fireball floats gracefully above his palm, as if he himself had conjured it.

"You said yourself, Grampa, my magic is more powerful than you've ever seen. If Pan sees my magic coming from you—"

"It would make him nervous," Gold admits. "Take him off his stride."

"For just a moment," David adds. "But a moment is all we need."

"If I was five years older, you'd let me be on the front line with you, wouldn't you?"

Emma points out the obvious: "But you're not."

"Why does a couple of years make any difference? I've got magic right now. There's a reason for that; I heard you say so yourself, Grampa. I heard you say my dad was the bravest boy in the Enchanted Forest when he was my age. My mom and my gramps killed dragons. My gran and my—and Belle, they fought in wars. Why should I be any different? They're all heroes; I was born to be one too."

"Yes, of course, but not at such a young age," Snow says.

"It's now that you need me, not five years from now."

Regina dismisses the idea. "You're too young to fight and that's all there is to it."

Gold looks at each of them in turn. "He's too powerful not to."

The argument goes on a full ten minutes, eating away at precious time that should have been spent on battle plans, but in the end, Bae gives way, remembering that he had been willing to fight at an age not much older. David becomes convinced that Henry has a destiny to fill, and with a guarantee that Henry will be hidden away, out of reach of the enemy, even Snow relents: she and David are born heroes, and they recognize their bloodline in the boy. Only his two mothers remain adamantly opposed.

"There's a reason that he has this power now, not five years from now, Em," Bae speculates. "Why he can do what no one else can."

"Don't give me that crap about destiny."

"With every cell in my body, I hate magic," Bae declares. "If I thought we could order him to stop using it, I would, but I don't think we can. I think he's supposed to use it. We'll keep him safe, I promise. He has to be what he's meant to be."

Regina slams her open palm on the table. "That's my _child_ you're talking about."

"And he has magic, just like you, just like his mother," David says.

Bae closes his eyes briefly. "Just like his father."

He says it so softly it almost slips by unnoticed, but Henry catches it. "What did you say, Pop?"

Taking a deep breath, Bae lays his hand open. A fireball, identical to the one Henry produced, appears in his hand.

"My gods," Gold whispers.

"Yeah," Bae says miserably. He closes his fist and the fireball disappears.


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter 41

**A/N. The inspiration for this chapter was U2's "Love and Peace or Else."**

* * *

"Baelfire," Belle breathes in awe, but the sheriff's reaction is pure Emma, amended for Henry's sake: "What the fu-udge?"

Bae can't meet his father's eyes. "See, you're not the only one with a curse."

Gold sets his hand on his son's arm. He no longer has the capacity to smell the magic in another's blood, so he's unable to determine the type or the strength of Bae's magic; it doesn't matter anyway, he decides, for clearly, Bae has never taken advantage of this power. What does matter is how Bae feels about it. Gold's first impulse is to assure Bae that he's not cursed, that his magic is not dark and that he should explore it, but none of that would fly with Bae. In his mind, all magic corrupts: in his fourteen-year-old, black-and-white way of thinking, it was the only way he could justify his father's and Blue's actions, and he's stuck to that way of thinking ever since.

"How did this happen?" Snow asks.

"I don't want to talk about it," he snaps.

"Okay," David says slowly. "Now, we're going to want to pull the enemy away from FM 133: that's how we'll send our New York-bound group through. . . ."

Gold is listening, but he's still staring at his son. There is nothing Bae could have said or done that would have stunned him more—nor opened a wider door of opportunity to cement their relationship, for Bae is so troubled by his "curse" that he needs help coping, and no one knows more about coping with curses than Rumplestiltskin. Now, perhaps that Rumple's free of his own curse, Bae will see him as a worthy counselor. He squeezes his son's shoulder.

"I don't want to talk about it," Bae insists in a hiss.

"When you're ready," Gold whispers back.

Emma's phone rings and she steps aside to take the call. When she returns, she interrupts the planning to announce, "Pan's arrived. They've got their own party going on over there." She turns her phone around to show a fuzzy photo of a dark-haired kid in a leaf tunic and green tights. He's sporting a crown of holly.

"He can't be more than twelve," Snow says.

"Don't underestimate him," Emma cautions, recalling what she learned from Hook. "That twelve-year-old has about sixty years of battlefield experience."

"Yeah, but I'm not sure I can bring myself to fight a child."

"You'll forget he's a child soon enough," Bae assures Snow.

**Gold's House, midnight**

"I want to stay with you tonight," Belle had said as they walked home from Granny's.

"It's liable to be noisy. The Lost Boys will be there. And I have packing to do," Gold had answered, but that was the end of his argument: he wanted them to be together too.

As they open the door to the dark house, Belle kicks off her shoes. Her body slumps with weariness as they drop onto the couch. He massages her shoulders and she leans into him with a satisfied sigh. "I'm going to miss this place."

"This house?" He won't. The house represents Regina's idea of Gold, not—he stops in mid-thought: _Gold_ is Regina's idea of Gold. _He_ is Rumplestiltskin; he must start thinking of himself that way. Except. . . .Rumplestiltskin was a fabrication too. He closes his eyes, resting his chin on the top of Belle's re-shorn head (he's starting to like her haircut, actually: the shorter hair emphasizes the diamond shape of her face). He can't remember who he was before he became a cartoon.

"Belle."

"Hmm?" She's half asleep on his chest. The rest of the righteous. Since Emma woke him from his cursed daze, he hasn't slept a full night, not even with Belle in his arms. That will change soon, he supposes, when he returns to manual labor as the means for earning his daily bread.

"There will be a need for cloth, and no factories to produce it. I think I'd like to be a spinner again."

"Then I shall learn to weave."

They fall silent and her breathing slows; he realizes she's fallen into a light sleep. When her breathing deepens, he will rise carefully, settle her comfortably onto the couch, cover her with the lap blanket. He has packing to do, and there will be no time tomorrow: gardening tools from his shed, carpentry tools from his shop, sewing gear. He scowls: he should have thought earlier today to buy clothes, for nothing in his closet upstairs is suitable for his new labors. When the Lost Boys return from the hospital, he will bargain with them, trading his Armani and Hugo Boss for their (good grief) "I heart NY" t-shirts and Wal-mart dungarees.

He thinks of the old potions case in his basement, and the shelf of powders and spell books. Though the magic has left his body, in all honesty, he's not completely bereft. Even if he abandons everything in his basement, he will still have the knowledge: he can take the raw ingredients the forest and the sea provide and from them, he can perform impressive feats. He can be a mage again.

He thinks about this a long time before he rises and tucks Belle in. He starts for the shed, but that route takes him past the basement, and his feet pause there. His hand on the door knob, he begins to plan which potions and powders to pack in the case. Healing ones, first and foremost, then those that can protect and defend, and those that can ensure successful crops and healthy lambs, and. . . .

But he_ has_ magic. He doesn't need potions or spells; he has the most powerful magic in all the realms, and not that pale imitation he bottled and threw into a well, either: between Belle and Bae, he has the strongest and purest forms of True Love. He finds himself chuckling silently: Slightly's boss is at work on Rumplestiltskin again. Will she never give up on him?

Then again, why should she? He's always been her biggest fan.

He releases the door knob and walks away.

**Town Border at Highway 5, Dawn**

Granny and her cook are distributing cinnamon rolls and cups of coffee and tea. It's the last time they'll ever serve this group of customers, so they are paid in hugs and kisses and handshakes as well as fervent wishes for their happiness. As a parting gift, Granny presses a rubber-banded stack of file cards into David's belt. "Recipes for dishes from the old world," she says. "I know you're the cook in the family." David accepts them with thanks.

A horse-sized black wolf bounds up the highway, in mid-stride transforming into a tired but proud Ruby. She reports that the enemy has awoken and is breakfasting—eating as though they had all day to sit around in hammocks. David is pleased with this news. As Ruby adds that Curly has left his post to join his compatriots at the FM 133 border, a call comes in from Nibs: the ninety-seven citizens who will be leaving for New York, excepting the Lucases and their cook, are all present and accounted for, their vehicles packed and gassed up.

"We'll call as soon as the attack begins," Snow says. "And then take off. Emma says don't worry about the speed limit."

Nibs' voice crackles. "Good luck to you, Your Majesty. Maybe we'll see you again sometime."

"Good luck to you, Nibs. And thanks."

Slightly pulls up in Dove's SUV—now signed over to Ruby. He hops out and opens the back. "Ms. Lucas?" he holds his hand out for Granny to help her aboard; the cook climbs in on the other side. With handshakes, kisses and farewells all around for this new arrival, the final separation of the tribes is accomplished: those who will conquer New York, those who will conquer the Enchanted Forest.

Granny pauses with her foot on the step. She turns, flares her skirt out and curtseys to Snow. "May you fare well, Your Majesty."

Snow dips her head in thanks, and Granny climbs into the car.

Slightly extends a hand to Dove. "Mr. Dove. It'll soon be someone else's turn to take care of you. Let her." He casts a glance meaningfully over Dove's shoulder, and when the latter looks back, he finds Regina standing there, discussing last-minute plans with David. Dove frowns in puzzlement and Slightly shrugs. "My boss moves in mysterious ways."

Slightly waves a hand toward a thick-leaved oak tree several yards back from the highway. He knows Henry's there, but he's not sure if Henry is _up_ the tree, _in _the tree-or _transformed into_ the tree. "Henry, take care of yourself."

A bright voice calls back, "Goodbye, Mr. Slightly!"

Slightly now accepts a kiss from Belle. "Ms. French, thank you." He doesn't have to say what for. "We'll see each other again." He leans forward to whisper to her, "You're one of my boss' favorites, you know."

He then shakes Gold's hand. "Mr. Gold." He winks. "We're gonna break the monster's back."

Gold smiles wryly. "We already have, Mr. Slightly."

Bae is the last. The young men and old colleagues embrace, slapping each other on the back, mumbling tough-guy words of encouragement: "Give 'em hell, Petey." "Kick ass, Slightly."

Slightly ends with a request, "Don't forget to invite me to the wedding." When, red-faced, Bae glances over at Emma, who's got Hook in a visual death grip, Slightly laughs and slaps his back again. "Ha! Caught ya!"

With final waves, the SUV rumbles back the way it came.

**Highway 5, 6:47 am**

The sun is rising. In the distance, an unnatural rooster crow cuts across the sky.

"Welcome to Storybrooke, Pan," David mutters, leaning on the town sign. As Snow calls Whale at the library and commands, "Throw the beans now!" and Archie starts his stopwatch, David unsheathes his sword.

**FM 133, 6:50 am**

Nibs, at the wheel of an old VW bus hauling Ma Shoe and her nine children, shouts into his cell phone, "Roll 'em!" and begins to sing "The Caisson Song" at the top of his lungs. Ma and some of her children join in, but the smaller ones whimper and clutch their favorite blankets and toys. The eldest child, nineteen-year-old Anna, holds her two youngest siblings on her lap and grumbles about her father, who managed to avoid this mess by hopping into Jack B. Nimble's taxi with the Nimble clan.

Behind Nibs ten other vehicles are lined up, ranging from a rebuilt MG Midget belonging to Mike Marine of Marine's Garage to a farm truck hauling the Spratt family to a city bus carrying fifty evacuees with assorted alliances. No one's ever seen the city bus on the streets of Storybrooke before; it's been sitting in the junkyard for thirty years. Twin One, the driver, can't figure out why: it purrs like a kitten who's getting its belly rubbed.

Waiting on the pavement are the Lucases and Slightly. Granny's got her crossbow at the ready as she scans the sky, on the lookout for trouble: "Anybody gonna try to stop this caravan's got to go through me first." Ruby scans the horizon, her heightened senses detecting the rapid approach of an army, coming from the west and headed toward the border at Highway 5. "They're moving directly towards our people," she reports. "They've got a couple of scouts flying overhead; the scouts are saying this is going to be a cakewalk." Her eyes glow yellow as she frowns with worry, but Slightly, holding her hand, shakes his head. "Two minutes," he reminds her. "Then kablooey."

"Maybe I should run back, in case they need help."

"They're going to be fine." He checks his pocket watch. "Any second now Whale will open the portal."

"We'll never know if Snow's team made it all right."

As the last vehicle in the caravan rolls by, he urges Granny and Ruby into Dove's SUV, where four other passengers wait, singing "New York, New York."

He squeezes Ruby's hand. "We'll know."

He's right about that, but she doesn't say why she knows he's right: it's because she'll smell the blood if the fighters don't survive.

**Storybrooke Library, 6:50 am**

The hospital staff has fallen into the role of leaders, quieting the 168 suitcase-carrying evacuees waiting in the street. "Shush, shush," they caution. "Dr. Whale needs to be able to hear when the call comes in."

Standing on the threshold in the open doorway, Whale holds his phone to his ear and waits. Behind him, boxes and crates of all sizes have been neatly arranged; inside, packed in heavy padding, are the instruments with which the former Storybrookers will become Enchanted Forest residents again. Among the crates are a dozen young farm animals: their owners can only pray they will survive the fall.

Someone whispers, "What if we land in ogre territory?"

"Shush!" Kelly slaps the back of that rumor-monger's head.

When the call comes, the nurses and orderlies and hospital custodians will begin directing the evacuees into the library, two by two, ten seconds apart, so they won't fall on top of each other as they leap into the portal. Then Whale, compass in hand, will throw the bean and, with Doc, make the first jump. They'll be waiting on the other side with their medical bags open, just in case.

Whale's phone rings.

**Highway 5, 6:54 am**

There's a rumble first, the ground shaking and the trees bending as if trying to escape the onslaught; and then there's noise, so much noise it hurts: crow calls, shrieks, demon laughter, shouted threats in strange languages, marching feet and flapping wings. Overhead two griffins appear, their huge bodies and wide wings blocking the rising sun. They circle, taking turns diving in low, snatching at the heads of Snow's fighters, then soaring up again before an arrow or sword can be raised against them.

It takes an excruciatingly long time, Emma thinks, for the enemy's front line to appear on the hill overlooking the town line. "Like they think it's a Sunday stroll," she complains.

"Part of the strategy," Snow explains. "They expect the anticipation alone will scare some of us off."

As the front line starts down the hill, row after row after row falls in behind: first ogres and giants, then trolls, then fork-tailed demons, then creatures Emma can't identify, kind of human looking, yet not. "Steady," David says.

When the front line is half a mile away, David says, "Swords and bows up."

When the front line is a quarter mile away, it comes to a halt. A comet streaks overhead and lands at the head of the enemy line. When it stops glowing, Emma sees it's just a little boy, an adolescent in tights and tunic. The boy sets his hands on his hips and crows, then laughs as though he's come to play marbles in the schoolyard. "I smell you, Nine!"

The fighters standing on the border don't budge. "Steady," David says again.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" the boy sings. He points a finger at Snow. "Or she gets it first."

"Steady. . . "

Peter Pan the Fourteenth sends a blazing stone directly at Emma's head. He dances about: "Ha, ha, I changed my mind!"

Emma snaps her fingers and the firestone boomerangs and smacks an ogre between the eyes. The ogre crashes over, taking a phalanx of trolls with it.

"Ooh, a magic fight, is it?" Pan squeals. "Sorcerers forward!"

"Let 'em have it!" Snow thunders.

In a chaotic display of firepower, every one of Snow's 64 fighters, with the exception of Hook, seizes the magic from his or her talisman and shoots off fireballs, ice daggers, miniature cyclones, freezing rain, tree branches—a flying cuckoo clock even appears from Marco's magic and smacks a troll down. The biggest and most imaginative displays, Pan notices, come from four people standing front and center: a petite woman in a blue cape, a tall blonde woman in a red jacket, a sharp-featured woman in a black lace-and-satin gown, and a smallish, graying man who, even as Pan glares at him, transforms, his skin acquiring a greenish hue, his teeth blackening, his hair frizzing, and his irises turning gold.

"Rumplestiltskin," Pan identifies him. Then, with a mock bow: "Queen Regina. It's an honor, an unexpected honor."

"No it isn't," Regina says carelessly. She singes the tail off the demon standing to Pan's left.

Pan hesitates for just a fraction of a second. "But where is my predecessor? It's him I want—his head on a spike, that is."

"Afraid to play with the grown-ups?" Regina calls out. "I'll turn you over my knee, you little snot-nosed brat." She, with the woman in blue and the woman in red following right behind her, unleashes a volley of completely random and therefore unpredictable flying and flaming objects at Pan's front line, even as his sorcerers appear, forming a protective shield before him.

"Get 'em!" Pan orders, and his army attacks.

For a moment longer, Rumplestiltskin stands perfectly still on the crooked orange line. Then he raises a single finger, points to the sky, and with Henry's magic drags a storm cloud in from the ocean, centers it over Pan's head, inching it this way, then that, until it's exactly where he wants it, and then releases its rain, thunder and lightning upon Pan.

Snow shouts at the top of her lungs, "RUN!"

To the utter amazement of the enemy, her entire army turns tail and scatters.

Wiping the rain from his eyes, Pan orders, "Kill 'em all!" He leaps into the air and hovers, watching, directing the attack, and then he narrows his eyes and sets out himself after the woman he's identified as the leader. His sword a lightning bolt, a flaming dagger in his sash, he sweeps down from the clouds like a hawk with its talons snatching at a sparrow, and he seizes Snow by the ankle, flips her upside down and carries her into the sky. Her tiara clatters to the asphalt and Regina snatches it up.

Something flashes at Rumplestiltskin's left, but he's busy running from an ogre and can't turn to see what it is. Then he hears a rooster's crow, in a deeper voice than Pan's, and a flash of blue bolts into the clouds. Stumbling over his own feet, he spins to stare past the ogre into the sky. "Bae! No!"

"Grampa, duck!" Henry's shriek rings inside Rumple's head. The imp falls and rolls, avoiding a sideswipe from the pursuing ogre. As Rumple struggles to his feet, Henry shouts again, "Shoot him, Grampa, shoot him! Fireballs coming!" Rumple lifts both his open palms and his fingers burn and tingle and Henry's magic pours through them, producing two orange fireballs that Rumple flings at the ogre. The ogre's loincloth catches fire and the creature emerges naked but unscathed. "Give me a spear, Henry!" Rumple requests, and together they send the spear's point right between the ogre's eyes.

"Neal! Come back! We don't have time for this!" Emma is shouting as Pan Nine sweeps across the sky, sword at the ready, and barrels right at Fourteen, running his sword into Fourteen's shoulder. Fourteen has no choice but to drop Snow so he can defend himself. A heavenly sword fight ensues. "Damn it, Neal!"

David helps a limping Snow to her feet and half-carries her as they try to run. Blue sends a blast of healing magic at Snow's leg; she can't take the time to assess just where the injury is, but her magic painkiller gives Snow full use of her limbs again.

Metal clashes in the sky as one army keeps running after the other. Archie shouts, "Neal! Ten seconds!" He leaps up, ordering, "Henry, make me fly!" But it's too late: Henry's transported himself across town already and is waiting at the library, anxiously watching the street for his family.

"Come on, kid, we've got to go." Leroy is the first of the fighters to arrive at the library, and he tugs at Henry's arm, but Henry wrenches free.

"Not yet! My moms aren't here yet!"

With a grunt Leroy raises his sword and stands protectively in front of the kid.

One by one, the fighters gallop down Main Street: Nova, Marco, Jefferson, Dove, Archie, Hook (who's lost his hook in a skirmish with Pan's pirates), on and on they come, and Kelly directs them into the portal.

"Now, Regina!" Snow shouts as she and David shoot around Sycamore Street and enter Main.

"Not yet," Rumple pleads. "Bae's still back there!"

But Regina stops in the middle of the street, extracts a black diamond from her cleavage, centers it in the asphalt as carefully as a golfer would a tee, and she conjures a baseball bat from Henry's bedroom in the mayor's mansion.

"Regina, stop!" Rumple demands, trying to take the bat away from her.

Emma and Blue sweep past and disappear into the library. Now it's only Belle, Snow and David, who are closing fast on their destination—and Bae. Crossing the threshold, Emma grabs Henry's arm and the two of them leap into the vortex.

"Run, Rumple!" Regina swings the bat like a sledgehammer, connecting with the first attempt. "Ms. Ruth's got nothing on me," she giggles as the diamond shoots up into the air and begins to spin, throwing off flashes of blue light. She tucks the bat under her arm and runs.

"Bae!" Rumple shouts into the sky. He frames his eyes with the flat of his hand, but he can only see shadows flitting to and fro. Belle tugs at his sleeve. "Rumple, please . . . ."

"It's Bae; he's up there, fighting Pan," Rumple stares at her and his glistening eyes say more than his words can. Belle nods and stares at the sky too.

A humming noise, increasing in volume and pitch, issues from the revolving diamond. Main Street crumbles beneath their feet; overhead, oak and sycamore trees reach out and swipe down power lines, crash through windows, and up through the ground shoot weeds and blades of grass tall as July corn stalks. Thick vines creep up the sides of buildings and wrap themselves like cobras around houses.

"Rumple. . . ." Belle urges, but she has no idea what she wants to say. She only knows what he's going to do: wait, even if it means waiting for his own existence to wink out.

"Go," he points at the library. "Please, Belle, for both of us."

She entwines her arm in his and watches the sky. The ground shakes and the street splits open; they struggle to stay upright.

Snow and David dash past, both of them shouting, but Belle and Rumple can't hear them over the demolition. A phalanx of Pan's army appears at the corner of Sycamore and Main, throwing magic, stones and arrows at the two remaining Storybrookers. The rest of Pan's army has scattered throughout town, some of them running for their lives, some, either oblivious to Nature's revolt or so fixated on greed that they can't see anything else, loot the stores. Belle and Rumple watch in horror as a pair of demons kick in the door to the pawnshop and run inside.

"Dad!"

A blue bolt shoots from the sky and Belle shrieks in triumph. "It's Bae!"

"Come on, what are you doing standing there?" With a thud Bae lands heavily on his feet. He's panting, holding his side, from where blood oozes, but he's alive and he's here. Rumple grabs him with one arm and Belle with the other, and they run for dear life as all about them, ogres, demons, giants, trolls, sorcerers and unidentifiable creatures simply vanish.

This time there's no hesitation: Rumple leaps into the void. As they fall, Belle calls upon the last drop of magic in her necklace; she summons it to her fingers, then she reaches out and touches Bae's wound. A little yellow light glows for a moment, then flickers out. It's enough.


	42. Chapter 42

Chapter 42

**A/N. The inspiration for this chapter was U2's "Exit."**

* * *

As Doc, Whale and the hospital staff tend the minor injuries suffered in the brief battle, David scans the rugged plain, searching for a familiar landmark, but comes up empty. "It's all right," Snow says. "I'll find out where we are." She walks apart from the others, tilts her head back and holds her arms straight out to her sides. In a moment, a pair of robins land on her shoulders and she converses with them in her own unique way.

Belle starts to organize the hundreds of crates, boxes, duffle bags, backpacks and suitcases that came through the portal. "We'll take the lightest and most necessary things first," she suggests. "Once we've found our kingdom, we'll build handcarts and come back for the rest."

"Oh for Hades' sakes," Regina mutters. "Why do you have to do things the hard way? Just tell me where you want it all to go."

"That's kind of you, Regina," Belle says, "but we don't know yet where we are, so we don't know where we're going."

Regina shrugs. "Fine." She waves her hand in a wide circle and all the luggage takes on a faint purple glow. "When you've decided, just tell the bags where to go and they'll go. As for me, I'm going home. I'm going to pour a glass of wine and run a hot bath. Henry, come along." She wiggles her fingers in an invitation to take his hand.

"I'm staying with Emma." Henry takes a step backwards, out of the reach of her arms, though he realizes he's hardly out of the reach of her magic. "I. . .You can come and see me tomorrow."

Regina narrows her eyes as she takes stock. If she wanted to take Henry now, it wouldn't be too difficult: Emma would kick up a fuss, but it probably wouldn't occur to her to use her magic to fight. Blue might pull some defensive maneuvers—maybe throw up a shield around Henry—but Regina could plow through it. And Rumple, all he could throw at her would be rocks and nasty looks.

Except. . . there are two unknown factors. Nealfire has declared himself a mage, though a highly reluctant (and most likely, unpracticed) one. She saw him fly this morning, but that was the extent of his demonstration of power. Based just on experience alone, Regina has him beat, but she has to ask herself whether this is the fight she wants to pick with him.

Henry, Rumple claims, has powers that exceed hers; untested and untrained, the boy has no idea what he's capable of. Regina tries to imagine what it would be like to fight her own son. She can't. She can't visualize a single situation in which would she strike him—and even more painful is to try to imagine a situation in which he would strike her.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then," she says, her voice cold. She glares at Emma to make sure the veiled threat got through to the sheriff (or should that be "princess" now?). She lifts her hand, summoning her magic in preparation for departure.

"Wait!"

Regina turns in the direction of the unfamiliar voice. That tall man who works for Rumple separates himself from the crowd. Slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder, he walks up to her. He doesn't bow—has he forgotten, after all that time in Storybrooke, she's a queen? She's thinking about boxing his ears when he suggests, "I'll go with you. You may need help. You don't know what condition your castle is in, or what sorts of wildlife may have moved in while you were gone."

"Unnecessary, completely unnecessary." She's flustered: why would anyone, especially this man with whom she's had no previous contact, want to help her? Then she remembers he's Rumple's man and she scoffs: no doubt Rumple wants him to spy on her. "I'm quite capable of taking care of myself." She smiles at Rumple: _you can't manipulate me_.

Rumple just looks mildly surprised.

"You'll be hungry," Dove argues.

"I have magic. I want for nothing."

"I've tasted the food magic produces. You'd rather have_ real_ vegetables and fresh venison, wouldn't you?" As the hardness in her expression softens just a bit, he presses, "And someone to talk to?"

"A trial basis," she says quickly. "Sorry, Rumple, I'm taking your man. If his work pleases me, I'll keep him."

Dove glances back at Rumple. "Something Mr. Slightly said," he tries to explain. "And I'll be there to look after Henry when he visits."

Rumplestiltskin walks forward and offers his hand, which Dove shakes. "Mr. Dove, if you ever wish to return, I'll be delighted to take you back into my employment."

Belle runs forward and kisses Dove's cheek. "Goodbye, Mr. Dove. We'll miss you."

"Send us a message by means of Snow's birds if you need anything." Rumple has no idea what he can provide: there may be nothing left of his property.

Belle's waving as Regina's magic carries the queen and her new handyman away. Linking her arm in her beloved's, Belle muses, "You don't suppose there's an _attraction_ there?"

"Dove and Regina?!" Rumple snorts. "A good-hearted, intelligent soul falling for a twisted, evil—" then he cuts off abruptly and turns red.

She laughs. "No, Regina's nothing like you, my love. But she does still have a heart, so. . . ."

* * *

As, led by Snow's avian friends, they pick their way across the rocky and cracked land, the Storybrookers make their observations and their plans. Rumple half-listens: it's obvious from the condition of the soil that this territory is caught in a drought. This year and the next will be lean, at best. He can change that, make certain his family is provided for—and then he stops himself, remembering he's only a man now, a middle-aged tradesman who knows little about farming. He's not even sure if his strength will be adequate to defend himself against the myriad dangers of this world. He chides himself for having failed to pack his Glock and a lifetime supply of bullets.

Henry jabbers about all the adventures he intends to pursue, while Bae reminds him he'll still be expected to do his chores and Emma reminds him he will still have classes and homework. Snow and David, walking apart from the others, talk in low, serious tones; it's not difficult to guess the subject of their discussion. Their expressions are grim but determined: they have new enemies to defeat now, first and foremost, nature itself, but they will reclaim and restore their kingdom.

"Belle, there's something we haven't talked about, and we should." Rumple stares at his feet, carefully placing one foot in front of the other on this jagged terrain. A simple fall or twist of the ankle could be devastating now, with an urgent need to find shelter and food, and no magic to put him back on his feet again.

"Are you worried about what we'll find?" she asks.

"And what we won't find."

"I've lived off the land before, and so has Snow," Belle answers. "We'll survive, and next year, we'll have crops and livestock."

"Belle. . . from the Dark Castle to Snow's kingdom, it's a six-day walk, if the roads are clear and the weather favorable. And Avonlea and all the other towns and villages that we knew, they're uninhabited now. The people who are with us now are all that's left of the Enchanted Forest."

"The territories beyond the Enchanted Forest, they weren't affected by the curse, were they?"

"No, but they're farther away still, too far to reach by foot. Even if we're lucky enough to acquire horses, the distance is still impossible, should there be an accident, illness. . . Without phones and cars, it will be a dangerous, lonely existence." He stops, stepping off to the side to allow the crowd to pass him by, and she stops too.

"Are you saying you don't want to go back to the Dark Castle?"

"I'm saying it would be a terrible existence for you. Even Bae will be following David and Snow; his place is with his son."

Belle now understands what he's getting at, and she sets her hands on his chest and gives him a push that tumbles him to the dust. "Absolutely not, Rumplestiltskin! You will not chase me away with your inferiority complexes and your pessimism ever, _ever_ again! If you're set on returning to the Dark Castle and your hermit's existence, so be it. If you truly want to live in the Dark Castle, you won't be living alone. I'm coming with you, whether it's as your housekeeper or your lover."

He scrambles to his feet. "I won't ask that of you, sweetheart. You deserve so much more than—"

"And so do you. You need people just as much as I do. And Bae, after two hundred years of searching, surely you don't intend to let him go again. You have a grandson who looks up to you—my gods, Rumple, do you want him to learn about magic from Regina? But if your heart is set on the Dark Castle, that's where we'll go." Belle searches his eyes and finds contradiction there. "Is it? Is your heart set on returning to your castle?"

The crowd is a good distance ahead of them now. He watches them moving forward, ignoring the two left behind. She's so warm-hearted, she can't begin to understand what it's like to be the pariah, nor should she. She's done nothing to deserve that life, but if she stays with him, that's what she'll face, whether they live in exile in the Dark Castle or whether they follow the Charmings—to Rumple's inevitable imprisonment.

Either way, she will come to resent him, and her resentment will turn to disgust, just as Milah's had.

He clasps her hands and begs her with his eyes to believe, even if she can't understand, even if he can't find the words to describe what he knows about people and their treatment of those who don't belong. Even if he could describe it clearly enough so that she would feel it, the tale would take too long. They have already fallen far behind the others, the ones whose company she really needs. He licks his lips nervously, then in frustration shakes his head.

"Don't punish yourself this way," Belle pleads. "After all we've been through, you and I and Bae and Henry—we're family. Don't take that away from us because you don't feel deserving of it."

"It's not a question of what I feel I deserve. It's a simple question of justice. They. . . Snow and David, they have a kingdom to think of now. They must administer the law. For all I've done in this world and the other, if I enter their kingdom, they would have no choice but to imprison me again, and I can't live that way, Belle. I won't go back to their prison; I won't have my grandson and my son and my wife living in shame—"

"Oh, _hell_ no," a firm voice declares. Emma suddenly appears before them, her arms crossed defiantly. "I saw that cell. I was locked in it for an afternoon. I wouldn't lock a rabid dog in that cage, let alone my kid's Grampa."

"Emma, how did you hear what we were saying?" Belle asks.

Emma blushes. "I noticed you went missing and I thought maybe an ogre had grabbed you. That's why I, you know, magicked my way back here. Didn't mean to eavesdrop, but—_hell_ no, you're not going into that cell or any other. I'm still the duly elected sheriff, so I've got a thing or two to say about it, and believe me, I intend to. Law has a price too, just like magic, but there's more than one way to pay. Back in the old country, we have this thing called work-release, and that's what we've got in mind for you, Gold." She pokes her finger into Rumple's chest. "You're gonna be teaching me magic by day, so I can protect our kingdom against marauding pirates and ogres, and by night you're gonna be spinnin' cloth, 'cause I'm sure as hell not gonna raise my son in a nudist colony. So sez I the sheriff, and so sez my mom the queen."

Belle draws in a deep, relieved breath. "So what say you, Rumple?"

Emma drops the tough-gal act. "Seriously. A case could be made that you already paid for your crimes with your life, and you were just lucky enough that modern medicine brought you back to the land of the living. The town knows you're not the same man you were before Hook killed you. Putting you in prison—even a clean one—would just be shooting ourselves in the foot. You have skills we need if we're going to survive."

Rumple studies the sheriff's face: the question is not so much whether he believes her, because he knows her to be a teller of truth, but whether he trusts her father and Blue and the other hard-liners in this community. Whether the prince's years as the screw up David Nolan and Blue's years as a nun have cooled their heat for black-and-white justice with the waters of mercy and compassion, that's what remains to be seen. Besides, who could blame the revenge seekers if they fail to see the changes in him that Emma has seen?

"Trust comes hard to people like you and me," Emma says. "So if it makes it any easier, let's put it in the form of a deal: give me your word you'll help us rebuild the kingdom, and I'll give you mine that you'll be welcome in it." She holds out her open hand.

He shakes her hand. "I accept. And thank you, Emma."

**Third Week**

The setting sun reflects in red and gold off the still surface of the lake that separates Snow's castle from the new village of Evaton. Rumple and Belle stand at waterside, resting from the hard work of cleaning the debris from the queen's castle. The queen and her consort have returned from a moderately successful day's hunt; there will be meat on the table tonight, to accompany the nuts and fruits the children have gathered. The clean-up is now far enough along that in the morning, the dwarves will go out into the countryside to hew stone to begin the restoration.

And in the morning, Belle and Rumple will return to the Dark Castle.

Not to stay, but rather to retrieve the spindles of gold that Rumplestiltskin once spun for his own amusement and tossed so carelessly into a storage room. If the Dark Castle still stands, and if it hasn't been plundered, Belle and Rumple will load what once was useless to them into a wagon rebuilt by dwarves and pulled by the only horse in the village, a swayback that David managed to rope and haul in. Belle and Rumple will take their wagon of gold to the country of Gloucy, where they hope to bargain for vital supplies.

Belle is excited by the prospect of visiting Gloucy, where the people speak a language that sounds like rippling water and eat things that the Dark One used to step on. Too, Belle wishes to learn whether her library is intact, for if it is, she hopes to return next year to reclaim it and combine its holdings with those from Storybrooke. She dreams of a library to rival that of New York, of which she has only seen photographs.

Rumple's dreams are small. . . .and are carried on little feet.

He wonders about his own collection, back in the Dark Castle: the Golden Fleece, Robin Hood's bow, Sinbad's saber, Merlin's hat, so many treasures he can no longer remember them all. The years he spent pursuing them, trading for them, earning them, trying to fill an empty life with them. He supposes those treasures could be traded too, along with the gold, for food and livestock, iron and mortar. Or they could be gathered for a museum someday. As for himself, he has sees no value in them. What he values, he has, right here in Evaton. . . except for one little object, a certain ring that once belonged to his Aunt Maerwynn. It's an unadorned steel band that wouldn't even buy a tankard of ale if he tried to sell it, but it matters to him. That ring, he will hide in his shoe when Belle isn't looking.

As the moon pushes the sun aside and the aroma of venison turning on a spit drifts in on the breeze, Belle leans against his shoulder. He would be embarrassed for the state his "I heart NY" t-shirt is in, except it's an _earned_ sweat that stains it, and Belle's denim shirt is just as dirty. He glances down at the jeans given to him by Tootles; already they're stained and ripped at one knee. His gaze falls lower and he frowns. He releases Belle and shifts his weight to one leg so he can raise the other.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

He pries off a shoe and shows it to her. The heel is loose and the leather looks like it's been chewed by a pit bull. "Think I'll make a deal for that extra pair of Doc Martens that Mike Marine has." With a grin he flings his Ferragamos in the lake.

**Third Month**

Everyone, from Queen Snow on down to Chad the former school crossing guard (semi-retired)—works sunrise to sundown demolishing the unrepairable, repairing what can be repaired, and building anew, tilling and planting, hunting and fishing and skinning and smoking the catches. The labor is so tiring, so intense—because they feel their very existence depends upon it, although Rumple could correct them: Henry, Emma or Bae could easily conjure a meal or a new set of clothes. When they fall into their blankets soon after sundown, they sleep heavily, dreamlessly.

But every once in a while, the impulse comes up like a hungry fish breaking the surface of a lake: _Why do I spin wool now, when I once could spin gold_? _Why do I break the soil and pierce the ground to drop seeds in, in the desperate hope that there will be rain, enough but not too much; that there will be sun, enough but not too much; that there will be insects, but only the helpful ones, so that, come fall, I can work even harder, plucking the product of my spring labor, to can it and parcel it out during the winter? Why do all this, when a few spells, which I can conjure with the right books and powders and potions, will produce all the fresh food my family wishes, whenever we wish? Would I not be a better provider for my family, if I gave them this guarantee—and used my time and my energy to be with them instead? _

Regina comes for tea, usually with Dove, and always without invitation or announcement: Belle suspects she enjoys catching her former enemies and rivals with sweat pouring down their faces and mud caking their boots. Rumple thinks Regina's motives are much simpler: she's lonely. She's always been a talker, even in years when she was hated the most, just prior to the curse, and even in the post-curse/pre-savior years, when people were afraid of her, without really knowing why. She craves attention, and therefore, she craves company, and having been raised in comfort, she's never had to earn her bread by the sweat of her brow. She has toiled only in her orchards, and that labor was something she chose: she could have easily hired (or forced) others to do it for her. Though she worked diligently as a mayor—he must grant her this—she doesn't understand why people can't just drop what they're doing to chat the afternoon away with a guest.

So she comes for tea, and because in her mind she is a royal, she must have her tea with all the embellishments: a lace tablecloth, a silver teapot, china cups, finger sandwiches and petits fours. Since Snow can't produce them, Regina does—with magic, of course—and takes great satisfaction in trumping a fellow royal. When Regina arrives in her black carriage, her magic floats behind her like a cloud of heavy cologne, and traces of it linger in the air for days after she's gone; not even the scent of fried fish can mask it.

Rumple refuses her invitations to partake of the tea that she provides, so she will wander, her parasol protecting her fair skin from the sun, to the construction site at which he and Belle happen to be working, or she will interrupt his spinning in the evenings as the workers rest beside a fire. Regina brings tales from other lands, so everyone listens to her; but she usually wants to talk about magic, past or present, as well. When she takes the conversation into that direction, Rumple will stand and without apology walk away, returning to work or rounding up Dove and Whale for a round of poker. "How rude," Regina sniffs—and sometimes she traipses after him with a sly smile, knowing her barbs have rankled him.

Sometimes she leans over his shoulder and whispers in his ear, "Don't you miss it? I could bring you something, you know: a spell book, some potions. It would make your life here bearable."

"Flake off, Regina."

Sometimes she calls after him, "Magic is what you _are_."

"Aren't you miserable?" Belle asks Dove.

"Why don't you come back?" Rumple invites.

"I'm where I'm supposed to be," Dove always answers. "Where I'm needed."

Belle feels sorry for him, but Rumple thinks he understands: only Dove stands between Regina and her magic. She hasn't the watchful eye of family or friends to keep her human. Regina is the new Rumplestiltskin.

**Sixth Month**

Why now? Why hadn't these. . .symptoms. . .manifested earlier?

Rumple has excused himself from the communal dinner table and has walked out of Snow's almost-remodeled castle as the first symptom, a sheen of cold sweat, spread itself from his belly and his chest to his face. With a hasty glance to assure himself that Belle is preoccupied, he slips out the gate and runs across the bridge, through the village and into the forest. As he leans against an evergreen to catch his breath, the second symptom catches up to him: his gut twists and his throat burns until he loses his dinner, and then his stomach settles into a dull ache. Next comes a shaking that starts in his hands and soon encompasses his entire body. His teeth chatter and he compulsively opens and closes his fists until finally, in frustration, he slams them against the tree. His body will not answer his commands as he orders it to quiet itself.

He knows why he has these symptoms. He just doesn't know why _now_, when he's happy at last with his life—when he has no desire for the magic that his body is crying out for.

Inside are his family, his co-workers, his friends, his community. Outside, all around, are the signs of the success of his labors: the homes under construction, the planted fields, the newly built coops and corrals that hold the livestock he and Belle bought in Gloucy. _He_ had a hand in all that: everywhere he looks, he can see something that he designed and built. This is his town as much as anyone's, and before the first snow falls, he will have a house of his own.

So why is his addiction raging now?

He knows the course his symptoms will follow because he's been through this before, but only briefly: when he, Emma and Henry left Storybrooke for New York. He wonders now, if Hook hadn't poisoned him, what an extended stay in Manhattan would have done to him.

Here, he could find relief. The thought produces a whole new round of the shakes. He could take David's horse and ride to the Spiral Castle, make a deal, any kind of a deal, with Regina, in return for potions. It wouldn't be the same, since the magic wouldn't pound through his blood, but at least he would feel it on his skin and he could pretend it was his for the keeping. Hell, knowing Regina, she'd sell him some magic cheap, just for the amusement of watching him beg.

Or he could trick Henry into sending a couple of pulses into him. He could tell Henry he has the flu and a small injection of magic would cure him. Henry and Emma haven't begun to study magic yet; they'd never know the difference. Or he could tell Emma the truth: she'd sympathize, put him out of his misery with a little dose.

"Dad?"

Crap.

"What are you doing out here? You ran out like a bat out of hell. You okay?"

The last person in the world he wants to see him like this. Bae will pity him now, and even worse, hate all the more the magic that he himself possesses—hate part of himself out of fear that it will someday turn him into either the uncontrollable Dark One or this cringing thing that's now clawing at a tree and whimpering for just a little magic.

Rumple tries to straighten himself. "I'll be okay. Just a—you know, reaction to the change in diet."

Bae walks right up to him, stares at him in the moonlight. "Don't lie to me, Papa."

"I'll be okay," Rumple insists again. "Heat stroke, probably." And he stands taller to prove the point.

Then his guts clutch all over again and he doubles over, losing the last of his dinner. Bae slides his arms under Rumple's just before Rumple hits the ground. "Can you walk? We need to get you inside."

"No. I don't want Belle and Henry to see this, especially not Henry." He slumps against the tree as Bae eases him to the grass. "Not you either. Didn't want you to see this."

"Don't shut me out. If you're sick, I want to help you."

"It's temporary, Bae. It'll run its course, I promise."

"You know what this is, and you're not telling us?" Bae's tone becomes accusatory. "What is it, Dad? Why are you sick?"

"It'll pass. A few weeks."

Bae steps back. "I'm going to get Whale."

Rumple surrenders. "Not Whale. Archie."

"What?"

"Bring Archie."


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter 43

**A/N. The inspiration for this chapter came from U2's "Running to Stand Still" and David Bowie's "Ashes to Ashes."**

* * *

Bae brings Archie, who brings his medical bag, and the two men take him to the unfinished house he and Bae have been sharing and ease him onto his bed. As Archie takes his vitals, Bae fetches a pail of water from the communal well (crops, livestock and basic shelter have had to take priority this year; next year, Evaton will tackle plumbing). "You're running a slight fever," Archie reports. "Blood pressure a little high. I don't see anything we ought to worry about, but I'm not really a physician; I'd feel better if you'd let me send for Whale, especially considering your recent history of medical events."

Rumple's eyes slide to Bae. This is a defining moment in their relationship, Rumple believes. He has two choices: he can ask Bae to leave, and hope that Bae won't take offense, and hope that by keeping his condition a secret, he can preserve the respect that Bae has come to feel for him in the past six months—a hard-won respect, earned with every bead of sweat, every callus the two of them have acquired without complaint, working side by side in building this community. The way Bae looks at him now, the way Bae talks to him over the dinner table, the way Bae asks his opinion and requests his assistance—it's everything he ever hoped for, and he knows that this solid relationship is what Bae needs too. It would shake that foundation like an earthquake for Bae to learn—to learn he was right all along about the irreparable damage magic has done to his father.

But to shut him out. . . Bae is an adult; he needn't be protected from the harsh realities of life, and he can't be hoodwinked. He knows something serious is wrong and to be shut out—or worse, lied to—would endanger their relationship too.

But this house is too small to store secrets in. If Bae doesn't know just yet, he soon will, and he'll be furious that his father didn't trust him enough to share such important health-related information.

"No, the kind of help I need"—and Rumple wonders at those words falling out of his mouth: Gold would have been far too prideful to speak those words, and Rumplestiltskin would have giggled at the notion—"is in your line, not his. These attacks. . . I've had four of them in the past two weeks. They're. . . related to the loss of magic."

"I'm not sure I understand," Archie says.

"I'm going through withdrawal." Rumple yanks the word out of his gut.

"Oh. . . ."

He closes his eyes briefly, then he opens them upon Bae. "Like alcoholism or drug addiction. I used magic so often, for so long, so—dependently, that I—came to need it."

"I see," Archie says.

But it's Bae's reaction that Rumple is watching for. It comes swiftly, in flashes: amazement, disbelief, acceptance, anger—and then what Rumple had hoped for. Bae grabs his hand and squeezes. "It's gonna be okay."

Rumple takes this to mean _we're gonna be okay_. He squeezes back. "Thank you, Bae."

Archie observes the interaction and smiles approvingly. "We can beat this, gentlemen. With some hard work and time, yes. I'm sure of it."

A corner of Rumple's mouth slides into a wry smile. "So you've treated magic addition before, Dr. Hopper."

"Well, no," Archie backpedals. "Actually, you're the first case for me."

"I'm the first case for me too. Everyone I know of who's lost their magic did so through death. But I have seen a few sorcerers who have temporarily been unable to access their magic, for various reasons; their bodies reacted the same as mine has."

"That information may prove valuable in determining your treatment."

"You'll take my case then, Doctor? I'm no longer able to pay you."

"Yes, you can." Archie nods at two works of art hanging on the bedroom walls: the sketch of Bae that Rumplestiltskin the spinner drew centuries ago and a recent portrait of Belle, created with paints made from berries and vegetables. "Paint me a scene from Storybrooke. I. . . find it's starting to fade from my memory already."

"It's a deal."

"Fine. We'll start tomorrow at sunup. David told me he'd come across a hut about five miles into the forest, along a river. I suggest a retreat."

"Is that necessary? I have a lot of projects that need to be finished before winter."

"Let someone else do them," Archie says firmly. "You need to put yourself first. That's the first step toward recovery; if you can't make that commitment, you won't get well."

"Harvest is over," Bae reminds his father. "The others will have time to pick up the slack."

"All right," Rumple agrees. "Bae, will you fetch Belle? I need to tell her."

Bae stands. "Yeah. But listen: I'm coming with you."

Archie glances quickly between the two men. "I, uh, I'm not sure that's a good idea. The patient needs to be able to talk openly. . . ."

"And he needs to able to eat. Dad doesn't know the first thing about hunting, and I bet you don't either, do you, Dr. Hopper?" Bae folds his arms. "And what would you do if you ran into a bear or a wolf? Invite it lie down on your couch and describe its relationship with its mother?"

Archie chuckles and turns red. "I suppose you have a point, but I must ask that you allow us privacy during the therapy sessions."

Bae drops his arms. "Sorry, Doctor, didn't mean to sound disrespectful. It's just that if you're going to be out in the woods for several days, you need someone along who knows how to manage out there. Yeah, I'll bug out when you tell me to. Getting my father well is a priority for me, too."

Archie turns to his patient. "Then, Mr. Gold, I'll leave the final decision to you."

"Bring your fishing pole and some books, son," Rumple answers. "Now, if you'll fetch Belle?"

* * *

She won't leave him. He's sure of that; after all she's learned about him, if she hasn't run yet, she's not going to. Still, just because of all she's learned about him, he hates to pile one more crime on. Just how strong can love be? He's put theirs to the test far too many times.

Belle rushes in from the little house she shares with a former physical therapist and two ex-grocery clerks. She's in her nightgown and robe already; without electricity, they've all become early risers and early sleepers. She barely notices Hopper as she sits down on the bed and presses a hand to Rumple's forehead. "What's wrong? Should I get Whale?"

"I've had a couple of. . . incidents . . . .Belle, I'm going to have to go away for a while. To get well. Dr. Hopper recommends it."

She frowns at Archie. "Dr. Hopper? I don't understand."

He takes up her hands in his. "I need therapy—psychological therapy. Belle, I have a problem, an addiction."

A question forms on her lips but she doesn't voice it; he gives her the answer anyway. "I'm going through withdrawal symptoms and I need therapy. Belle, I'm addicted to magic."

He sees in her eyes sympathy, and something he hasn't seen before: fear. "I can come with you, be your caretaker."

"I'm sorry, Belle, this is something he needs to do alone," Archie says gently.

She swallows the lump in her throat and gives her beloved all the courage she can muster. "I understand. Go, and do what you need to. I'll be waiting here, and praying for you."

"Belle." He rests his forehead against hers.

* * *

"I just realized, I've never asked you, since coming here, what you'd like to be called."

Although no woodsman, Archie leads the way along an overgrown path through the forest. Packs of food, cookware, blankets and clothes, along with Archie's medical bag, have been slung over Rumple's horse, one of the small herd he bought in Gloucy. Although horses have never been a part of his history, since returning to this land, he's paid close attention to everything David's had to say about them; a horse may mean the difference between survival and death here. The mare is of an unusual coloring, a liver chestnut with flaxen mane and tail—there was no other in Gloucy like her. She's an alien among her own kind, and so he bought her, because she reminds him of himself. He suspects she understands that, because she forgives him his mistakes.

Archie is leading them to a two-room hut that once housed a woodsman and his two children but now is occupied by mice and a flock of sparrows. They've packed their bags: they're going to be here a while.

"I've been calling you 'Mr. Gold,' as if we were still in Storybrooke. But you don't seem like Mr. Gold any more," Archie continues.

"I suppose not." Rumple walks along, thinking it over. He is not Gold: that was just a role Regina cast him in. And he's wondered a bit about her costuming decisions: she put him in the clothes and the speech of a cultured man, but the long hair and the gold tooth, what were they about? A little joke? He must ask her sometime. Once Emma had arrived and he'd awoken, he'd taken on his own little rebellion over her version of Gold with letting his hair grow shaggy and his chin grow scruffy.

Since coming to this world, he has changed, and his appearance reflects that. When he looks into the water in his wash basin as he shaves, he sees deeper lines in his face, caused by exposure to the elements. There is more gray in his hair; his body, no longer immortal, is aging. He's beginning to have problems getting his eyes to focus so he can read. Yet his skin is tight against newly built muscle and his walk, always purposeful, is now more casual, his shoulders relaxed, his stride looser. Perhaps that's because now, as he walks through the village, he no longer feels hateful or fearful stares. There's nothing quite so equalizing as sweating and straining and grunting alongside other people in a struggle for mutual survival.

No, he's not Mr. Gold any more, but he's not Rumplestiltskin either, the abandoned child, the bullied teenager, the naïve young husband, the self-mutilated father, the powerless pariah, the Dark One, the feared father, the vengeance seeker, the Jaded One.

A new man requires a new name. "Let me think about it."

Archie glances at him but shows no surprise. One of the first things Jiminy learned, when the imp started fencing his stolen goods, was that Rumplestiltskin believes deeply in the importance of names. Jiminy never quite understood what he meant when he talked about names having power, but Archie has come to understand that a person wears a name the same as he wears clothes: it presents to the world his definition of himself.

"How do you want to be called, now?" Rumple asks.

"Regina may think she created a spineless guy when she created Archie," he speculates, "but _I_ like the guy, a lot better than I liked Jiminy. I'm keeping him."

Rumple chuckles. "And you, son? Do you still prefer to be called Neal?"

From the other side of the horse, Bae looks over at his father. "It's the man Emma fell in love with," he says thoughtfully. "But Neal Cassidy's like Gold, I guess: a fake. And not a very good one. Baelfire never would have run from his own father."

"No," Rumple agrees, "he would've stood his ground and tore the old man a new one."

"Baelfire was a name to be proud of." Bae gives the horse a decisive pat on the neck. "Someone I want my son to know."

* * *

"What were you doing, just before the first symptom came on?"

Rumple tries to remember so he can answer Archie's question. They are chasing out the mice and sweeping out the ankle-deep dust, and Bae is chopping wood to lay a fire. Later, they will bring in armfuls of grass and leaves to serve as mattresses for their blankets. "Just having dinner. David was telling you and Henry about the herd of deer he'd tracked."

"I remember."

"Snow and Belle were talking about some books that they plan to teach school with. Bae was sitting on my right; we were talking about the properties of different stones. . . . Emma was on my left. She was talking to Whale. . . ." Rumple's frown vanishes. "I remember now: she passed me a plate of bread, and my hand brushed against hers, and I felt an electrical shock. She must've been thinking about magic, because her skin was radiating with it."

Archie nods. "The touch of a hand doesn't seem like much but I've known alcoholics to be set off by a beer commercial. The subconscious mind is a force to be reckoned with."

"But why now? I'm happier than—well, than I can ever remember. I have no desire for magic."

"Maybe the Dark One's taking one last stab at you. Or do you think you got rid of him when you got rid of the magic?"

"That's a unique way of looking at it," Rumple chuckles. "'Got rid of the magic.' As if it was as a bad debt I unloaded."

"Might do some good if you started to think of it that way. It _was_ a rotten deal, wasn't it? All those people—the desperate ones, the greedy ones, the stupid ones who dug themselves into a hole and expected you to get them out. All of them screaming your name, night and day, and all the selfish, stupid, greedy things they wanted from you, and the way they'd try to cheat you. I was there; I saw how frustrated you'd get. They wouldn't leave you alone, would they?"

Rumple's eyes darken. "It was. It was a damn burden."

"It was a curse," Archie pushes. "Look what it did to you. You had riches, but not one single person who cared about you. You had associates, people you trusted enough to deal with, but nobody you trusted enough to take into your confidence. I traded with you for, what, twenty years, and you never once mentioned to me that you had a son. That's a sad way to live. A harmful way to live. What it does to the body, when you shut yourself off from other people: you may have had eternal life, but you looked every year of your age. What it did to your mind, your heart, that the only contact you had with people was when you were making deals. Do you know, in all the times I came to your castle, you never once offered me a cup of tea? I used to think that because you weren't human, you didn't need friends, but as I got to know you better, I realized you were determined to isolate yourself."

Rumple blinks. He's mulled over the question before, but in an intellectual way; now he cares about the answer. "Not human. Am I, now? When the magic left me, did I become human again?"

"That matters to you, doesn't it?"

"I used to wonder if I ever found Bae again, how could I be a father to him, when I was—I didn't know what I was, because there was no one else like me. They called me an imp, but I wasn't that either. I was nothing created by nature; I was a freak that dark magic had made."

"But now?"

"I don't know. I don't see any traces of the thing I was. I bleed, my hair turns gray, I get sick, I will die, just as any human does. But has magic altered me in ways I can't see?"

"Biologically?" Archie speculates. "That would be easily answered. I can ask Whale for your medical charts. But if you're asking about your heart and your mind, I can assure you, you're entirely human: as complex, perplexed, confused and confusing as any of us. The question I asked you earlier, I think you've just answered with your own question. Magic was a curse to you and still is, because it has you doubting your very nature. Even if you didn't have all these other problems associated with it, I'd say that it was a very tragic day, the day you became a sorcerer."

Rumple falls silent in contemplation.

* * *

Belle props open the shutter and stares out the hole that is meant to be a window. She misses glass, the ghostly image of herself that it reflected back to her at night, the deceptively invisible shield that it provided from the weather. She misses glass, she misses music, she misses telephones and running water and bubble baths. But more than anything else, she misses Rumple.

Her housemates come in from their dates—even in this world, people will find a way to conduct romances. They greet her, but then they leave her to her reverie. They recognize the look of a worried lover.

* * *

At sunrise Archie starts again as he puts some porridge on to boil. Everything becomes something to be studied, starting with the red cracks in Rumple's eyes. "You didn't sleep much last night."

Rumple is making coffee—coffee strong enough to stand a fork in, because he suspects this will be a long day. Coffee is a precious commodity; Gloucy imports it, and the many ports it passes through place taxes upon it, but Rumple had traded two spindles of gold for ten pounds of coffee and thought himself lucky to get it because Bae loves it. "I guess not," he admits.

"Do you usually have trouble sleeping?"

"Yes, ever since I was poisoned."

"Have you talked to Whale about it? Make sure there's no physical cause?"

"I had no interest in staying in the hospital any longer than necessary."

"Do you dream about magic?"

Rumple sets the coffee pot on the stone hearth. He watches the flames lick at the bottom of the pot before he finally answers, "Rarely."

"What do you dream about most times?"

Rumple glances through the open doorway. Bae's out there, cutting branches for fishing poles. Rumple's tempted to lie, with Bae able to hear everything, but that would delay the inevitable. "Dying. Or, more accurately, the afterlife."

"What kind of an afterlife do you see for yourself?"

He sighs deeply. "Hell. A hell designed especially for me, by someone who knows what I deserve."

"Who's that?"

"Me."

Taken aback, Archie loses his wooden spoon in the pot. He doesn't bother fishing it out; he just lets the porridge bubble and lump. He sits down at the table to gather his thoughts. "Describe one of your dreams." But the tone of his voice carries a second message: _I'm sorry._

* * *

Over the next two weeks, Archie and Rumple probe every aspect of his life, including those that would seem to have nothing to do with magic—for as Archie points out, they could have everything to do with addiction. They talk as they fish, they talk as they scavenge for vegetables and nuts, they talk even as Rumple works a hand spinner just to relax. At first it's like cleaning a fish: when Archie insists he talk about his father and Milah, Rumple feels as though his guts are being scraped out, but after a while, the memories and the guilt don't hurt as much, and then the therapy becomes the removal of the small, fine bones that have been needling him throughout his long lives.

Something else changes too: gradually, Rumple gets used to Bae's presence during the therapy sessions; Bae never says anything, and he stays far enough away to avoid distracting his father. Slowly, Rumple comes to realize that it's a relief that Bae now knows the full story: all the wrongs Rumple has done and all the wrongs that have been done to him. And as Rumple becomes more comfortable sharing his history with his son, and as Bae becomes less judgmental listening to it, gradually, Bae comes in closer, emotionally as well as physically, and Rumple finds he's talking to his son as much as he's talking to his therapist.

* * *

Henry is having a sleep-over. That's not what he calls it: _sleep-over_ (or worse _slumber party_) is what girls have; he's just having a few of the guys over to hang out at his mom's castle, and since it's kind of far from Evaton, and the castle's got, like seventy bedrooms (well, not that many, but you get the picture), the guys are staying over for the night. Mr. D. will take them back to Evaton tomorrow in his wagon. No big whoop.

Except for Henry—and therefore Regina—it really is. Henry's never had guys over to spend the night before. He's never had guys to hang out with. But a lot's changed for him since coming to the Enchanted Forest: for one thing, he's grown a full inch. All those riding and sword-fighting lessons and all the construction work and farm work he's been doing have made him stronger physically, and that's made him stronger emotionally. Splitting his time between two castles and two queens, a prince and a princess has enhanced his social skills. And best of all, the détente that his two moms have reached has given him a sense of security. The way he looks at it, he has an elder for every purpose: there's Gramps to teach him to the fighting stuff, there's Regina to teach him the etiquette stuff, there's Gran to teach him the diplomacy stuff, there's Emma to teach him strength of character, there's Belle to share books with, there's Grampa to teach him all kinds of stuff about working with his hands (best of all, magic, but not until he's a couple years older, Emma says) and there's Pops for sports. All in all, Henry figures he's got a sweet deal.

All these changes must be showing, because, working alongside the other kids, he's kind of found a place for himself. He's not the class clown or an artist or a leader; he's more like an Archie Junior: kids come to him in pairs to settle their arguments or privately when they have a personal problem. All that time in therapy comes in handy. And maybe, having a family that's all over the map like his is, is a good thing, because he can see more than one point of view. He's even beginning to see Regina's. It helps, of course, that she's mellowing out some. She seems to have resigned herself to the fact that Emma's here to stay, that David and Snow and Belle and Rumple and Bae all take good care of him, and that none of them will bad-mouth her or infringe upon her time with him if she'll play fair with them. And those times when she does get snippy or manipulative, Mr. Dove gives her The Look that reminds her she's got it good now; she shouldn't blow it, and then she backs down.

One thing Mr. Dove's frowns haven't gotten her to do yet, though, is cut back on the magic. Deep down, Henry still knows she shouldn't be using it to try to impress his friends (though it works, every time) or win him over (which never works) or just do things the lazy way. But sometimes she makes him an offer that, well, he just can't see the harm in, like tonight: after a nice dinner (holy Toledo, she put on an apron and cooked it herself!) when it was too dark to play outside and the guys kind of lumped around the sitting room, looking for something to do, she conjured a TV and a broadcast of a Yankees-Twins game. Henry's not sure if it's a live broadcast, but he figures it has to be a real game, because Regina doesn't know the difference between a short stop and hot dog vendor.

The guys are having a great time, so, though Henry wonders if this is a kind of cheating, he accepts it as Regina intended: a gift meant to entertain him. Maybe it's not so different from the wooden sword Gramps carved for him or the paints Grampa made for him. They used what they knew how to do, to make gifts for him; Regina's just doing the same thing, in her own way. So he takes out the Murderers Row baseball, which he keeps in its Plexiglas case but carries everywhere, now that his dad's gone, and the guys all wish on it like they would on falling star that the Yankees will win, and they settle in front of the TV with popcorn that Regina's conjured.

After the guys fall asleep in their blankets on the stone floor—and a head-shake from Mr. Dove prevents Regina from transporting them into beds ("let 'em sleep on the floor," Dove whispers. "Roughing it is a guy thing")—Henry thanks Regina with a peck on the cheek. The way she beams, you'd think she just got an A on an exam.

* * *

Rumple walks out to the lake to watch the moon rise over the water. He's tired of talking, tired of feeling; he's railed against the world, berated himself, chided the Fates, cussed his father, raged against the Seer, spoken in hushed tones of his aunts, his son and his beloved. He's thrown some dishes, smashed his fist against walls, slammed doors.

And cried. Right in front of Archie, sometimes. And a few times, right in front of Bae.

He's emotionally empty now, and he only wants to watch the moon.

Bae strolls out too. At first he stops several yards off, uncertain of whether he's intruding, and he is, but an intrusion from Bae has never been unwelcome. The distance between them is too great for them to speak, so Rumple merely waves. Bae can't see his father's face in the darkness, but he takes the wave as an invitation, and he approaches, prepared to leave if it turns out he's misinterpreted the wave.

He finds he isn't wrong. Rumple smiles at him, then returns his gaze to the moon. They stand like that, not looking at each other, not speaking, but together.

* * *

**A/N. Coming up: ****four weddings ( if you count a double wedding as two) and no funerals!**


	44. Chapter 44

Chapter 44

**A/N. Bono & Bob Dylan's "Love Rescue Me" inspired this chapter.**

* * *

Each time she lets Henry go, Emma frets. Not out loud: she's the sheriff (and the princess, but she likes being the sheriff far more, because it's a title she earns, every day. Besides, who knows what the hell a princess is?). But when no one's looking she'll chew her fingernails, wishing she had a bear claw or at least a jelly donut to chew instead, and she'll get short-tempered with whoever happens to be in her line of sight, and she'll _really_ take it out on Hook, finding something devious in anything he says. "You're acting all pirate-y," she'll snap at him, and he'll snap back, "Well, what do you expect? It is my chosen profession."

She'll feel guilty then, because he didn't have much choice in any of this, did he? What Evaton needs in this first stage of its development are builders and farmers, hunters and gatherers. He can't hammer a nail straight and when he walks into the barn with a bucket, the cows all stampede. He can't weave or ride or rope or hold a bow; he does, however, show a talent for butchering meat, so that becomes his new profession. And he has a knack for predicting the weather; the farmers find this handy. But, Emma decides, a pirate without a ship is like a mom without her child, so she says nothing when she catches him staring off into the horizon. When she thinks of it that way, she can almost sympathize—and then he'll lay some lame double entendre on Snow, right under David's nose, and Emma loses all hope for his rehabilitation.

And then she forgets all about Hook, because she hears Dove's rickety old wagon, something he found rotting in one of Regina's barns and has tried to repair himself, despite Regina's many offers to conjure a new one. Those squeaking springs signal the return of Henry, and Emma can stop fidgeting for another week, while Henry's where she can see him. As she hugs him (secretly inspecting him for damage) she wonders if she'll ever trust Regina enough to stop worrying when he's in the queen's care.

* * *

One morning in the second week of the therapy, as the men are fishing, Bae blurts, "Will it happen to me?"

Archie drops his fishing pole in surprise. "What? Will what happen to you?"

"This sickness." Bae looks Archie in the eye, as if daring him to deny the possibility. "I have magic. If I started using it—not that I plan to, but if I did—would I get hooked on it? Aren't addictions passed down through families?"

"No. . . Bae. . . ." Rumple tries to protest.

"I'm not an expert on magic, but from what your dad's taught me, magic isn't genetic; it's acquired, either as a gift or a curse. When two people from the same family happen to have magical abilities, it's probably because the shared environment created a propensity toward seeking magic as a means of solving problems," Archie explains. "How did magic come to you, Bae?"

"In Neverland a pixie offered to teach me how to fly. I couldn't see any harm in it; in fact, it seemed like a smart idea, to be able to get away from pirates. So I started flying, all over the place, and the more I flew, the safer I felt, and the higher I flew, the more of my past I forgot. When I flew, I left memories behind on the ground. I didn't realize then that I was practicing magic. Then Nibs fell out of a tree and broke his arm, and I didn't know what to do and the pixie wouldn't come when I called her. I was thinking about the times you would just touch something that was broken and mend it. Nibs was hurting so bad, all I wanted to do was make him better, and my hand lit up, and I touched his shoulder." As Bae relates the story, he raises his hand: it's glowing with an orange light, the color of autumn leaves. He flicks his hand as if to extinguish the light, but it remains.

Rumple reaches out a comforting hand, but withdraws it hastily: he must not touch that which is magic. He lowers his hand and his head: will he never be free to touch his son or his grandson again?

The light glows brighter, and Rumple can feel in the memory of his own cells what Bae must be feeling in his: the hope that comes with this power, the sense of freedom, and magic's push to be put to use. In Rumple's case, the push was a shove that caused him to fall from grace. But Bae's magic was the gift of a pixie, playful perhaps but not driven to destruction.

"How do I shut it off?"

Rumple smiles wryly. "Think about baseball."

Bae's hand stops glowing.

"It's not malicious magic you have, son. You won't become like me," Rumple assures him. "You couldn't, anyway; you aren't a coward."

"You're wrong, Dad. I've been running ever since I fell into that hole."

"Things are different now, aren't they?" Archie asks. "You're here, for your son, for your father, and you're talking."

Bae shrugs. "Yeah, but I still feel like taking off."

"Will you?"

"I need to be role model for my kid, don't I?" Bae answers. "Like my old man's a role model for me."

_Like my old man's a role model for me_. Rumple has never heard a more powerful spell spoken. The words, a blessing, break the chains of craving for him, set him free. In days future, when the craving comes over him and he thinks he _needs_ magic, Bae's blessing will wash over him.

"You've heard the questions I've asked your father," Archie replies. "You've heard him describe what it feels like for him when he uses magic, and when he feels he needs to but can't. Have you heard anything that gives you cause to worry for yourself?"

Bae's voice drops to a near whisper. "I don't want to be like him. I understand now, it wasn't his choice, but all the evil his magic drove him to—how can I avoid that? I have magic too. And Henry—will he become—like that?"

"It's not the same, Bae," Rumple argues. "If it were—if your magic had come to you through a curse—it would have driven you, as mine did me. There were times when I could control myself, but other times when I couldn't, when I lost myself and the Dark One took over. If dark magic had a hold on you, you'd have left a trail of destruction everywhere you traveled. But that's not you, Bae, and it never will be. What's in you is a call to help people. If that wasn't so, as angry as you were with me, you would have left me bleeding on your doorstep after Hook attacked me. And Henry—his magic is something new to this world, something pure. Like his mother's, a product and a gift of True Love, incapable of being abused."

"Have you done anything by magic that you regret, Bae?" Archie prods.

"I don't know. I mean, no, but that's because I've always avoided using it. If I started, I don't know if I could control it or it would control me." Disgust rises above the confusion in Bae's voice.

Archie observes, "That's a common feeling for an adult child of—"

"An addict," Rumple finishes. His stomach churns, but the boulder that's been sitting on his chest for months rolls away. Names have power, and to speak this name for himself aloud, he can gain control of it; the more the name is used, the more common it will become and the weaker its power over him will become.

Rumple explains, "It's your choice, Bae, whether you ever use your magic or not. I doubt if the pixie intended it to be a burden for you. But—apart from the fact that you're my son and I want the best for you—I can tell you that your magic carries no darkness in it. I can feel it when I touch you, and it's nothing like the power that I had, or the power that flows through Regina. I had tremendous power, but it was the power of a fool, acquired through my own ignorance, and the darkness in that power drove me to crave more of it, with no regard to what it was doing to my body or my soul. Regina. . .she started from a dark place, and in full knowledge of the consequences, she invited evil in. For you and Henry and Emma, it's the opposite: you started from a place of innocence, and you attracted magic that will enable you to do greater good, if you pursue it. But white magic gives you the choice, always."

They fall silent as they consider his claims, until Archie adds, "Baelfire, something I'd have you consider. Addictions can't be cured, but they can be fought, day by day, and I have every confidence that your father will come out on top of that battle. He has so many reasons to win, and no compelling reason not to." He smiles at Rumple. "And he puts as much work into the fight as he did when he was learning magic. You remember that time you tried to transmute a lion into a griffin?"

Rumple grins in embarrassment. "I ended up with one pissed-off flying lion, as I recall."

"I've known you a long time, Rumple. A long time. And you were an old bastard, no doubt about it, but when you got it in your head to do something, you'd work your ass off to achieve it. There was a courage in that, a kind of an iron-jawed determination to buck the odds, that I looked up to."

Rumple suddenly seems to have become fascinated with a blade of grass. The redness spreading from his ears to his cheeks gives him away, however. He clears his throat. "The old bastard thanks you."

* * *

Three times during their stay in the woodsman's hut, Rumple experiences withdrawal symptoms. Each time is less severe than the previous, and as Bae fetches cool water for him, Archie talks him down, cutting through the stress. Archie makes notes of the symptoms; ever the healer, he tries to learn as much as he's teaching. He instructs Rumple in meditation techniques that nip the symptoms in the bud, and soon Rumple makes the practice part of his morning routine, right after shaving and before breakfast.

They experiment with herbs, one of Rumplestiltskin's areas of expertise when he was a practicing sorcerer, and they find that certain leaves when dried and boiled into a tea will reduce the physical reaction that occurs when he comes into contact with magical energy. He is able to touch Bae now, even when Bae allows his power to rise to the surface of his skin, and Rumple's own cells reject the intrusion of the magic. Sometimes, while in a pensive mood, Rumple wonders about the extent of Bae's power, wishes to test his abilities, but when these thoughts creep in, he retreats to the lake alone and empties his mind, as Archie has taught him, for he's discovered that he's intellectually addicted to magic, too.

He comes to understand then just how complete the Dark One's invasion of him has been. What Tamara took from him was in fact a cancer, and in time—not yet, but eventually—he'll thank her for it.

* * *

Belle is drawing her library. Well, Evaton's library, but she likes to think of it as hers, because it's going to be exactly the way she wants it. She spends weeks laboring over the sketches, creating little models out of mud and twigs and stones. Architecture, she knows nothing about, but what people need in a library, she was born knowing.

Henry is her number one cheerleader in the endeavor, but David is her biggest ally. He has dreams of making Evaton a new Alexandria, a seat of learning that will draw the finest minds from far and wide. "Shouldn't we work on plumbing first?" Emma asks. "Hello? Toilets we can flush?"

"We're working on that, and electricity, and paved roads and a hospital," David answers. "First the library, because we can't have a great school without a great library, and then we build the school. After that, everything else will come quickly, because the teachers and the inventors and the engineers and the scientists and the artists will come to us to learn."

"Yeah, but, I mean, compared to running water, isn't a library kind of frivolous?"

Snow raises an instructive finger. "Nothing for the soul is ever frivolous, dear."

So Belle draws and models, and David dreams of New Alexandria, and Snow rides with her sergeant of the guard into other kingdoms, making friends, forming alliances, for she knows it takes money to turn models into buildings and dreams into cities.

* * *

On the first day of the sixth week of their retreat into the forest, Archie announces it's time to go home.

"Addiction is something you'll have to fight all your life," he advises. "And you'll have to be especially vigilant that you don't swap one addiction for another. But you have the tools you need, and you have support, and you have work waiting for you, and someone who's been incredibly patient. It's time to go home."

"Thank you, Archie." It's not much of a payment for all the effort that the psychiatrist has invented, but Rumple realizes he can best show his gratitude by proving the effort wasn't in vain. Every day of his life now will be a test and an opportunity to demonstrate his gratitude.

Bae brings the mare up to the hut to load the packs onto her back. She's sniffing the wind and tossing her head. "She smells snow," Bae explains. He brushes his hand against her thick coat. "It's going to be a heavy winter."

"We'll get by," Rumple says. They start out, following the faded trail back. "Rumplestiltskin," he says suddenly. "That's how I want to be called. It's what my mother named me, and I want to reclaim it from the Dark One."

"A generation from now, Evatonians, when they hear the name Rumplestiltskin, will think 'that was one of the men who got the first colonists through the winter,'" Archie predicts. "'The man who spun the wool that kept them warm.'"

"Let it be so," Rumplestiltskin murmurs. "And let Maerwynn bear no shame upon hearing the name."

* * *

Throughout the village, the trees bend under the weight of snow and ice, but do not break. As he waits beside the fire for Bae to return from visiting Emma, Rumplestiltskin gathers a blanket around his shoulders and studies the steel ring in his palm.

He shifts his hand back and forth so that the steel ring catches the firelight. Through this ring, the women who raised him will be in attendance at his wedding: his Aunt Krea, who taught him that love is strength; and his Aunt Maerwynn, who taught him that nothing given in love is ever a sacrifice. He has no doubt that Slightly's boss will be in attendance too: he will see her in the eyes of his grandson, his son and his bride. He will hear her blessing in the prayers spoken by Queen Snow as she unites the two couples. He will feel her gentle touch in the handshakes and hugs of his neighbors—his _friends_.

Gods, he is rich.

_He dreams he is walking down a long hall, the ceiling, the floor and the walls of which are painted white. His footsteps, steady and firm, echo. He doesn't know where he's going, but he has the sense that he's moving in the direction he's meant to go. As he proceeds, he passes open doors leading into white rooms, and in each room stands someone he once was: the abandoned child, the bullied teenager, the naïve young husband, the self-mutilated father, the powerless pariah, the Dark One, the feared father, the vengeance seeker, the Jaded One, the pawnbroker, the lover, the builder, Dad, Grampa, husband. He looks into the eyes of each of them and as he passes, he forgives them all. He comes to the end of the hall and before him is one last door, standing open. He steps through into the light._

* * *

**Second Year**

Of course Rumplestiltskin thinks about It. Most nights, he thinks about it. He's a man in love, a healthy man. It's such a strange place they're in, though: everyone's confused. He and Bae, after some hemming and hawing, have discussed the problem: with the old world mores of the Enchanted Forest (further complicated for Bae by his long stopover in Neverland, where there's no such thing as romance), they came to the Land without Magic, where a whole different set of social conventions were followed. . . where "chemistry" is considered as important as compatibility; where "Hi, can I buy you drink" is followed by "When was your last HIV test"; where a relationship is considered a failure if the couple doesn't fall into bed on the third date.

Gold, having other priorities, simply ignored the whole business. Rumplestiltskin wonders now if perhaps True Love was working on him then, steering him clear of romantic entanglements, because the one he was meant for was there in Storybrooke all along. Bae, a young man in the big city, met Emma and followed the conventions of the place and time: a sexual relationship, followed by a friendship, followed by a romance, followed by love, and throughout, an unwritten commitment of love that was spoken only after months of lovemaking.

Now here they all are, Enchanted Foresters-turned-Storybrookers-turned-Enchanted Foresters. They are both, but "both" is an incompatible union; they are, then, Evatonians, but that's a place they made, so they have to make the rules for themselves too. The married couples have it easy. But everyone else has to work it out from scratch one relationship at a time.

Bae and Emma are in love and committed to each other; that's not in question. What they haven't figured out yet is just what name they want to give their commitment. They're old enough to realize that their union affects other people, including an observant and impressionable teenager. "We're going to get married," Bae says, "just not yet. We changed. It was twelve years we were apart. We have to learn about each other all over again."

And that's fine; it's wise to proceed slowly, Rumplestiltskin assures him.

But, Bae wonders, what about sex?

Rumplestiltskin coughs into his tea. He had expected this question to come up—about two hundred years ago. But it's encouraging, really it is, that his son feels comfortable asking the question.

It's a big castle, Bae points out; Emma has entire wing of it to herself. She can have overnight guests without disturbing her parents or Henry.

But she hasn't. Rumplestiltskin doesn't even have to ask, because Bae comes home every night. He comes home _late_, but he comes home.

"And you—if you ever want the house to yourself some night, you know the old tie on the doorknob trick, don't you?" Bae asks.

Actually, he doesn't. "I don't have a tie any more."

"Dad," Bae tsks. "Just tell me, okay? 'Bae, I'm gonna have Belle over for the night. Sleep at Archie's.'"

"Uhm, all right."

Bae pats his shoulder. "It's okay, Dad. Even old guys have needs."

"Yeah, but old guys also have patience."

* * *

On the last day of winter, as she has on most days of winter, Belle leaves her housemates to their own devices and comes to Rumplestiltskin's house. Bae, as usual, has gone to the castle to talk plumbing with the prince and baseball with the princeling—and sweet nothings with the princess.

There's something different in the air tonight, an undercurrent of spring beneath the winter wind; a stirring, not yet an awakening, within Belle. As they prepare dinner—canned fruits and vegetables, alas, nothing fresh for the table yet—she moves in small, tight steps, her thick sweater and denim trousers stiff on her body, like a housecat's collar on a caged puma. She is, in Storybrooke years, thirty: old enough to know everything she wants and how to get it, but too honest to play games for it. Nor would she have to.

She watches him, even as she talks about meaningless matters, and her eyes are frank and unembarrassed in what they're revealing to him.

He is flattered, relieved and very, very pleased. He is wearing one of his son's shirts, and instead of hanging on him like a curtain on a rod, it shapes him, or rather, he shapes it. He's aware of the changes his body has undergone this year. Not all of them have been for the better: more and deeper wrinkles, especially around his unprotected eyes (for no one remembered to pack sunglasses in Storybrooke); thinning hair, white around the temples and sideburns, streaks of gray elsewhere; skin dry and brown as jerky, and beginning to lose its elasticity; a squint when he tries to read close up. But at the same time, he's filled out some with the muscle that daily living now requires, his shoulders are no longer bowed with secrets, his stride has lengthened. He looks like a man of fifty-one, as his drivers license, if he still had it, would claim; he moves, however, like a man of thirty. He will keep up with Belle, when the time comes; she will be satisfied.

She watches his hands as he slices the bread, stirs the stew, pours steaming water from the kettle into the teapot. There are fine lines on his hands and the skin is loose around the knuckles. The pads of his fingers, once callused, have hardened in response to the heavy labor. But his fingers are still an artist's, long and tapered, and knowing of the effects of touch. His hands are compellingly beautiful.

After supper, they set up the chess board, but it's difficult to concentrate. Across the small table he watches her mouth instead of the chess pieces. He keeps staring at her lips, in his imagination, tracing their lines with his fingertips: the bow of her upper lip, with its sharp peaks that suggest cleverness and elegance; the luxurious lower lip, suggesting stubbornness and sensuality. Then he decides no, it wouldn't be enough to trace those lips with his fingers; he wants to trace them with his tongue. Slowly, beginning with the left corner of her lower lip, which she has a habit of chewing when she's nervous. He would stroke the tip of his tongue against that corner of her mouth until her nervousness dissolves. Then he would draw his tongue to the bow of her mouth, urging her cleverness forth, because he wants to see just how clever her mouth and her hands can become. And at the last he'd tease her lower lip, take it gently between his teeth, and it would soften and rise to meet his mouth, just as her body would soften and rise under his hands.

When their eyes connect, it's impossible to pretend their thoughts are innocent.

She's not concerned with social rules. Her values are what they've always been, and she would come to him without hesitation or regret. She doesn't need for him to speak vows in front of an audience; she hears his vows every day, in everything he does.

He, who at the peak of his power overruled queens and kings, set his own rules for three hundred years. Something's changed now, though. He's found his reasoning flawed, and therefore, his rules meaningless. He's come to realize, this year, he wants something reliable. He wants to bend: submit to the laws of True Love. And that means speaking the words before the queen and the community.

When he walks her home, he kisses her, allowing his tongue to play against hers, and she entwines her hands in his. "Soon," he promises, and he lets her go.

* * *

There is no library yet, nor a school, for it was as the mare predicted, a rough winter, and the harvest, stripped by the drought and their own ignorance, would have left the colonists hungry if they hadn't traded with Gloucy. But they hunker down in their well-made houses and the soft wool spun by Rumplestiltskin and woven by Belle, and they make it through. And on the first anniversary of the founding of Evaton, the residents gather at the castle for a celebration that Snow calls "a workman's ball": they are dressed in the clothes they wore when they built this town.

The prime minister of Gloucy and his cabinet arrive for the celebration, bringing, as considerate guests do when they intend to stay a while, wagonloads of supplies. In one of the wagons is a bag of raw silk for which Rumple has traded Sinbad's saber; he believes he's gotten the better of that deal. He yearns to feel silk beneath his fingers again, fragile as a fairy's wing as his wheel transforms it to thread. That's the part he tells Belle, but there's another part to that story he won't reveal yet.

The visitors stay in Snow's castle, of course, but they are served by the queen herself, for she has no servants, and they clean up after themselves, for they come from a country that is ruled by the people, and though they are dignitaries now, they were born farmers and millers and masons.

Regina arrives for the ball, escorted by Dove. "Did you invite her?" Snow whispers to David; he answers, "Are you kidding?" Emma confesses to the crime: "She's Henry's mom too."

But Regina has ignored the content of the invitation. She is a queen: she dresses in velvet and lace, with diamonds on her wrist and ears. She is greeted with stares.

Dove, in the requisite denim, fetches her punch and stays a while at the bowl, chatting with the other men. "So how'd you manage to avoid the royal make-over?" Whale wonders.

"I'm an employee, not an indentured servant," Dove replies. "She may ask—but I may say no."

"And she doesn't force the issue?" David asks.

"We have found a working relationship that's based on mutual respect." But his eyes twinkle. Rumple will not pry with personal questions, but he suspects Mr. Dove will never come back to work for him again.

"Hey, you notice somebody's missing?" Archie's question gets everyone to count heads.

"Hey, yeah," Whale says. "Hook. Come to think of it, I haven't seen him around in days."

"He ran off," David reports. "About five days ago. Emma saw him hop on a horse and ride off towards the east. She figures he's headed for the ocean."

"Did she chase after him?"

"Nah. Good riddance to him and the horse he rode out on, she said."

"Just as well," Whale comments. "He cheats at poker."

Bae joins the men at the refreshments table. He pops a handful of cracked walnuts into his mouth and munches as he listens to the conversation, but his gaze keeps creeping to the front of the Great Hall, where the dignitaries are chatting. It's not the strangers that have attracted his attention, nor the queens, but rather a certain princess who insists the only title she'll accept is "sheriff" and anybody who calls her otherwise is going to get the cuffs slapped on them. She's wearing a soft white tunic over her skinny jeans, and her hair gleams in the lamplight.

Rumplestiltskin comes up behind his son and whispers, "When are you going to marry Emma?"

Bae throws it right back at him: "When you marry Belle."

But Rumplestiltskin is ready for that challenge. "Fine. How about the first day of summer?" He walks away before Bae can object.

Rumplestiltskin had accepted his invitation to the ball with some trepidation, for Belle had been raised a duchess, and until the Second Orges War, balls had been a part of her duty and her joy. Rumplestiltskin, however, had never been invited to a ball—though he'd crashed a few, just long enough to wreak havoc—and he hadn't danced so much as a box step in thirty years, for numerous reasons beyond but including the obvious.

But he's ready tonight, thanks to a therapy session that evolved into a dance lesson from the surprisingly nimble Hopper. When the music starts, he crosses the dance floor with his hand outstretched, and his lady in her cotton blouse and denim skirt curtseys to him, and he sweeps her into a waltz.

As she sets her left hand on his shoulder, he sneaks glances at her fourth finger, wondering what size it might take. But he doesn't worry about it too long, for rings, even steel ones, can be remade. He's come to believe now anything can be remade.

After he walks Belle home and kisses her goodnight, he mounts the hill overlooking Evaton. He has an invitation to extend, though he has no idea how to do it, since it must traverse worlds, but he remembers that True Love heard his plea once when he called out to her in desperation, so he thinks perhaps she will listen again. "I don't know what you prefer to be called," he begins, addressing the moon. It's kind of silly, he supposes, for him to expect to find her there, when, if the rumors are correct, she's everywhere, but something about the moon makes him feel at peace. "But I guess you know me well enough. Despite that, you never gave up on me. I thought you might like to celebrate with me, because if you hadn't kept after me, I'd still be a powerful but miserable old bastard. Well, I don't have much in the way of power any more, but I've got everything I ever wanted, and I've got you to thank for it. So I'd like to invite you and your employee, Mr. Slightly, to a wedding, the first day of summer. I know you'll be there, everywhere I look." He starts back down the hill, then pauses to reflect, "You know, I always used to tell people 'love is the most powerful magic of all.' But what I didn't get then was that it's the _only_ power worth submitting to. I performed magic, but you perform miracles."


	45. Chapter 45

Chapter 45

**A/N. Bono & the Edge's "Rise Above" inspired this chapter. **

* * *

In his life, there have been three things that Rumplestiltskin has been certain of: that he would find his son again and that he will marry Belle.

But, being Rumplestiltskin, just as he had a plan for the former, he must have a plan for the latter. He wishes to give his bride three things: the ring, which he carries; silk, which he will spin and weave, so that she will have a proper wedding dress—

And a child.

That's the third thing he's certain of, because through her messenger, True Love revealed it will happen: there will be a child, maybe as many as five. Magic has shown it to be true. But in the last month he spent in Storybrooke, he developed a begrudging trust in science, so he turns to Archie. "You mentioned once that you would ask Whale for my medical records. I'd like you to do that now."

"I'll talk to him tomorrow," Archie agrees. "Have you been having nightmares again? Is that why?"

Rumplestiltskin _appears_ well rested and fit. In fact, he appears pleased as punch about something. "Not at all. But I'd like to know for certain what I am and what I can expect my child to be."

"Your. . . child?" Archie's voice slides up the musical scale. "Are you. . . .expecting?"

Rumplestiltskin chuckles. "Yes, but not for a couple of years. The child was shown to me in a vision. She'll have her mother's blue eyes and sweet nature, but what I don't know is whether she'll inherit from me. . .something unnatural."

"Unnatural?"

"Alien."

"Did you see something in the vision that worries you?"

He shakes his head. "She appeared healthy, happy and human, but it was a very brief vision."

"And if you knew in advance that your child might be not fully human, what would you do?"

"Love her. As would Belle. Fight for her, if I have to. The world, any world, can be a cruel place to a child who's like no one else."

"I think I can guarantee you, a child of yours will be like no one else, but that need not mean the town will reject her." Pride shines in Archie's eyes. "I think something's changed in us. We gained something when we had to start depending upon each other. It's as the writer Monica Wood wrote: 'Once you lose the first essential thing, all things become essential.' We know what's essential now, and it's not money or status or what's in your DNA. If your child is something other than human, she'll be just as essential to this community as any other child."

Rumplestiltskin leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "Get the medical records, please, Archie."

* * *

Regina has come to tea. Snow is ready for her this time, though, with a lace tablecloth, a china tea set and candied fruits on a silver tray. Snow smirks as the black carriage rumbles over the bridge and up to the gate—and then her smile vanishes as Dove hands Regina down, for the Evil Queen is dressed in. . .jeans and a red turtleneck. Her face wears nothing but a smile: not so much as a dash of rouge or a slash of lipstick.

"What the fu-udge?" Emma mutters.

"It's not her," Bae decides. "It's her Un-Evil Twin."

"Come on, she already sees us," Snow sighs. "We can't pretend we're not at home." The queen and her consort stroll hand-in-hand across the ward to greet the visiting queen. . . and _her consort_?

"Crap on a cracker," David says. "He's kissing her!"

"Oh poor Mr. Dove," Snow moans. "Well it's obvious, isn't it? She's got him under some sort of spell. We need to tell Rumple about it."

"What could he do about it, except get sick to his stomach like we are?" David responds, then grimaces. "Aw, man, look how she's kissing him back!"

"Glad Henry's in school and can't see this. He's too young to have a heart attack," Emma says.

"You don't suppose there could be an _attraction_ between those two?" Snow slaps a welcoming smile on, pretending she's seen nothing untoward as she walks forward and holds out her hand in greeting. "Good to see you again, Regina. Won't you come in?"

Emma leans into her beloved and whispers in his ear, "Ten to one, there's gonna be another wedding before the end of the year."

Bae tilts his head, observing the way Dove's hand rests lightly on the queen's back—her lower back, just above the waistline. "Mmm, no, I'd be a sucker to take that bet, babe. Come on, now, we've got to go in; your mom's depending on us."

"Hey, between the two of us, you think we could scrounge up enough magic to send her somewhere she can't bother us again, like, say, Saturn?"

Bae just shakes his head and follows Snow and David inside.

"Well, just in case, I'm gonna talk your father about those magic lessons he owes me."

* * *

Archie stops in the open doors to the barn. He watches for a moment before he calls out; he's remembering the days he came to the Dark Castle to make deals with the scaly-skinned but always stylishly dressed imp, and all the mornings he and Pongo passed the impeccably dressed pawnbroker on the streets of Storybrooke.

There the spinner is, ripped jeans, stained "I heart NY" t-shirt, manure on his Doc Martens. He's bent over the backside of a horse, a pick in one hand and a hoof in the other. Neither the imp nor the pawnbroker would have given this man the time of day; they would have thought him so far beneath them. Neither of them would have noticed, however, what Archie is noticing: this version of Rumplestiltskin is talking to the horse. Cheerfully. He digs the pick into the hoof and pries out dried mud. He sets that hoof down, slides over to the right side ("off side," David calls it), pats the horse's leg and talks to her some more. She shifts her weight to the left and allows him to raise the off-side hoof, tuck it between his knees and scrape it clean. He rises, easing his back into a stretch, then hangs the pick on a shelf and takes down a jagged-toothed metal comb that Archie can't remember the name of.

"Oh, hey, Archie." Rumplestiltskin catches sight of him now. "What's up?"

"Just thinking. Learning." The psychiatrist enters the barn and is immediately overwhelmed with odors, only a few of them pleasant. "When you had the power to see the future, back in the day—"

Rumplestiltskin snorts. "Not all it's cracked up to be, dearie. The power I least miss."

"Did you ever see yourself here?"

"I never saw myself, period. It seems to be a law: the seer can't see himself." Rumplestiltskin begins to run the comb through the horse's mane.

"Oh." The horse has closed her eyes and is standing hip-shot, so Archie figures it's safe to come forward. "Well, then, how did you see the vision of your daughter that you told me about last week?"

"It was shown to me." Rumplestiltskin contemplates for a moment, then decides to tell the unvarnished truth. "We had everyone fooled for quite a while there, Blue and me: we had you thinking we were the most powerful beings in existence. But there are and always have been higher powers, and sometimes they pay attention to us lesser beings. Sometimes they deign to get involved. One of them decided I needed a course correction, so she sent me Belle. And when I screwed that up, she sent Mr. Slightly to have a little chat with me. He showed me a glimpse of what my life could be."

"That's a tremendous gift," Archie exclaims.

"The gift of a generous and loving power, to a thick-headed and cowardly jackass." Rumplestiltskin attacks a burr stuck in the mare's mane. "Anyone else would have gotten the message the first time, when she sent Belle. Like Belle says sometimes, I take a lot of work."

"She—this power is a female?"

"I don't know. I've never seen her. Slightly referred to her as a 'she,' but I suppose that could be just a simplification."

"What is this being, then?"

"Love."

"Love. You're saying Love isn't an emotion, but rather, a living being?"

"I don't know. Call it an energy, then. Something that wasn't created and therefore can't be destroyed." He smiles ruefully. "I'd like to find out someday, though, just what she is. Scientific curiosity. It's enough, for now, to know that she gives second chances." He drags the comb in long strokes along the horse's back, raising little clouds of dust. "Did you come for something in particular or just to shoot the breeze?"

"Ah. Yes." Bringing the conversation back onto his home turf, Archie regains his footing. "Your medical charts. The Dark curse made no permanent changes to your DNA."

He stops combing and his mouth twitches. "I'm human."

"One hundred percent. You might cut back on the red meat, though; your cholesterol's a bit high."

Rumplestiltskin looks down at the comb. "My daughter will be fully human."

"But unique, I can guarantee you that."

* * *

He's heard runners refer to it as "the zone"; that's as good a term for it as any. Archie says it also happens with creative people, when they're lucky: their bodies go on autopilot as their minds sink deep into the subconscious. They lose track of time, lose awareness of their surroundings: you could bang a gong over their heads and they wouldn't react. Aunt Maerwynn would get like that as she spun; when Rumplestiltskin is lucky, he gets like that too.

He is in the zone, aware of nothing but the intoxicating, sleek softness of the silk as it passes through his fingers and becomes thread on his spindle. This state, Archie assures him, is as restful for the mind as an undisturbed night's sleep is for the body; Rumplestiltskin finds it a balm for the soul as well.

Emma finds him at his wheel. If she didn't know better, she'd think he was stoned. He doesn't answer her knock, doesn't turn around when she lets herself in, doesn't answer when she speaks his name (his Storybrooke name; she has trouble remembering he prefers his true name). She gives his shoulder a little shake and that brings him back around.

"Looks like you're making good progress," she comments.

"The weaving will be the slow part."

She fingers the silk on the spindle. "Nice. So I guess you know Neal proposed to me last night." A faint redness spreads across her cheeks.

He fights back a smile. "Did you accept?"

"Come on, you know I did." She slugs his shoulder. "It's gonna be hard to keep it a secret. So how long do we have to?"

"Can you give me five weeks to finish the weaving? I need to produce seven yards."

As Bae has explained to her, Rumplestiltskin intends to offer two gifts to his fiancée on the night he proposes: an heirloom ring and silk fabric for her wedding dress. What Emma has explained to Bae—but neither will ever reveal to anyone else—is that Belle has been preparing a surprise of her own: a book of fables about Storybrooke. She intends to give to Rumplestiltskin just as soon as Grace has finished the illustrations; she will present the book at a lovely candlelight dinner, and as he's admiring it, she will drop to one knee and propose.

Bae and Emma laughed uproariously over this revelation, comparing it to their own easy proposal (they were both on their knees, weeding the vegetable garden): "Hey, you know what we should do?" (Bae), "Yeah, sure I do. I mean, it's obvious, isn't it?" (Emma), "Guess so. You love me, I love you, so why not?" (Bae), "Sounds like a plan. When?" (Emma), "Would you mind a double wedding? Or would that kinda, I dunno, bug you?" (Bae), "It's not Dove and Regina, isn't it?" (Emma), "Aw come on, Em. Give me credit for _some_ common sense. Belle and Dad" (Bae), "Oh yeah? About time. Sure, let's do it" (Emma). They then placed a bet as to which one, Belle or Rumplestiltskin, would get the proposal on the table first.

"We're not in any rush, but Mom suspects I'm up to something. I might have to go out on a hunt for a couple of weeks so she can't weasel the news out of me."

He stands and removes the kettle from the fire. "I appreciate your efforts, Emma. I'll make the favor up to you one day."

"Well, actually, that just happens to be why I came." She reaches into her jeans pocket and extracts a pocket watch, which she sets on the base of his wheel. She flips the watch open. "Dad's. The stem broke and Henry tried to fix it—with magic."

Rumplestiltskin peers at the watch. The stem appears to be repaired; he can't see what—and then he does. The hands of the watch are running counterclockwise. "Huh."

"And Regina tells me he's been playing this guess-the-magic game with her; you know, where he reads her mind and casts the spell that she's thinking of. Apart from the fact that it's highly irritating, his guessing game has set the bedspread in Snow's old bedroom on fire and caused Mr. Dove's hair to fall out."

Rumplestiltskin frowns. "The bedspread I can understand—it was embroidered with little pink unicorns. Regina hates pink and she hates unicorns. But the hair—are you saying she was thinking of making Dove's hair fall out?"

Emma shrugs. "Just for a minute, while he was asleep. She was wondering what he'll look like when he's seventy. So anyway, as the hands on the watch show, it's time—past time for you to pay up."

"Pay?"

"The magic lessons you agreed to. For Henry—and for me, so I can clean up behind him."

He pours her a cup of tea and invites her to sit at the table. He takes his time doctoring his own cup, but when it's sweetened just the way he likes it, he pushes it away. "Emma, when Archie and Bae and I went on that fishing trip four months ago—that wasn't a fishing trip. I was undergoing therapy."

Emma raises an eyebrow but says nothing. She's come to respect his secretive nature, however frustrating it can be when she's trying to conduct an investigation; she's figured out that the less she pushes, the more likely he is to let her in. Particularly if someone they love is involved.

"I'm not sure I can tolerate prolonged contact with magic."

"Oh."

"But I agree, Henry must be taught: Fate has a plan for him that will require all of his faculties. And he's going to need his parents' support."

"And his grandfather's teaching."

Rumplestiltskin studies his hands. His face is unreadable; she waits. "I'll handle the classroom studies. I'll need an assistant for the practica."

"Fine. Blue? I'll go ask her."

"Not Blue. She'll take away your passion, neutralize you."

"Well," Emma frowns, "who's left? Gonna bring in someone from the outside?"

He shakes his head, and she moans, "Ohhh noooo. . . "

Now he nods. "Yeah. The only other possessor of cellular magic in the vicinity."

Emma slaps her forehead. "Crap on a cracker. You want me and Henry to learn magic from Regina."

* * *

The lessons begin the next morning. Out of curiosity, Belle and Snow sit in on the classroom lectures: two hours a day, five days a week on the history, philosophy and science of magic. Archie sits in too, but for other reasons. After lunch, Regina takes over with the practical stuff: transportation, transmutation, elemental manipulation. Rumplestiltskin watches from a distance; Bae watches from an even greater one. Privately to Belle, Rumplestiltskin frets about the difficulty he expects to have keeping Regina in check, but perhaps it's because it's her son she's teaching that she behaves herself, adhering to Rumplestiltskin's lesson plans. Or perhaps it's The Looks from Mr. Dove.

For a twelve-year-old, Henry catches on to the book learning strangely quickly: Rumplestiltskin says it's clear the Fates are eager for him to progress and prepare for his place in the world.

Emma flunks the Theories of Alchemy exam, beginning with the first written question: "Spell _alchemy_."

When Henry is fourteen, Rumplestiltskin announces he's ready for graduate studies. "What about me?" Emma protests.

"You get a gold star for effort."

* * *

"Any symptoms?" Archie asks periodically, applying his thermometer and stethoscope. "Sweats, shakes, anything? Insomnia? Bad dreams?"

"No," Rumplestiltskin replies. "When I feel affected by the magic, I meditate and Belle makes me a cup of herbal tea."

"Good, good." Archie is relieved.

"Do you miss it?" Regina asks her former instructor. This time there's no nastiness in her tone.

"No."

"If you could get it back again, would you?"

He answers honestly. "Not for all the magic in the worlds."

* * *

Bae has discretely bugged out for the evening. The silk is finished.

Rumplestiltskin borrows china and silver from Snow, and Granny's recipes from David. He's not much of a cook, but Belle hasn't complained yet. There are fresh eggs, fresh milk, fresh vegetables, all grown by Bae and Rumplestiltskin's hands. There are two wrapped packages, one small, one large, beside her plate. There is music, compliments of an itinerant minstrel. There is fragrant fire, compliments of evergreen twigs, and stars and a crescent moon to decorate the night.

Belle arrives, a determined light in her eyes and a package, wrapped in brown paper and bound with a silver ribbon, tucked under her arm. When she walks into the setting he's prepared for her, she hastily hides the package behind the door.

His hair, neatly trimmed and perfectly combed, cries out to be ruffled, she thinks. His tanned face, newly shaved, calls out for a thorough kissing. But she reigns in those impulses so that she can appreciate the esthetics of his plan. She is pleased to find that, for a man who's about to make a major life change, he's not the least bit nervous. In the past year, an increment at a time, he's grown in self-confidence, in trust in their relationship, and in faith in love. He's ready, they both realize; there is nothing to doubt.

As for Belle, she's _been_ ready.

A small gesture from Rumplestiltskin and the minstrel fades out, giving them privacy. For a long time now, he's thought about these words, rehearsed them, but he finds now that when there's nothing to doubt, it's clear what needs to be said. Standing before her, he drops to one knee and takes her hand. "I love you, Belle, and nothing would make me happier than to devote the rest of my life to making you happy. If you'll have me?"

She curtseys to him. "Long ago, I promised you forever. I still mean it. I love you too, Rumplestiltskin."

* * *

"I, uhm," Regina clears her throat. "I'd like a word."

He looks up from the stack of books on his desk. Snow has given him the pick of the empty rooms in the castle, to use as his classroom: he chose the uppermost one in the eastern turret. It reminds him of his lab. Maybe that's a bad thing to be reminded of, but if he's going to be around young mages whose magic flashes in their eyes and sparks off their fingertips, he's got to get used to things that are bad for him. After all, even if he doesn't touch the stuff himself, that word's going to be rolling off his tongue a hundred times a day now: _magic, magic, magic._

"Perhaps this will serve as desensitization," Archie has suggested. So far, he seems to have a point. The more Rumplestiltskin talks about magic, the more ordinary it seems—the less tantalizing.

"Your Majesty, good morning." He knows Regina would prefer that he rise and bow in her presence, since this is their first encounter of the day, but democracy spoiled him. When he bows, it's to the person, not the title.

There's a twinge of the old smart-ass in her voice; he suspects that even when she's ninety, she'll still have that edge. "I hear congratulations are in order. Doubly so. A groom and father of a groom. And the first wedding in the village. Quite a cause for celebration, all the way around."

"Yes." He turns a page on the book he was reading, signaling an end to the conversation, but instead of going away, she walks farther into the room.

"Well, I. . . thank you for the invitation."

Is that nervousness he hears in her voice? And sincerity? "You are welcome." He means it in both senses of the phrase. "We hope you and Mr. Dove will be able to attend."

"Yes." And is that a blush rising from her neck to her cheeks? "We're looking forward to it." She doesn't mention the odd statement added to the handwritten invitation: _Come as you are_. She's too decorous to find denim suitable for a formal occasion. Even though she makes daily visits to Evaton now, she doesn't seem aware of the fact that no one here, not even Snow and David, has access to finery. "Frank and I"—Rumplestiltskin raises an eyebrow: a first-name basis, is it? Dove worked for him for two years and he never once called him by his first name. "We'd like to offer a wedding gift, but I thought I should talk to you about it first, before I mention it to Belle."

He closes his book. "That's quite kind of you." He carefully arranges his features to hide his suspicion.

"Something for the town, actually, but I think it would make Belle happy. A library."

He blinks: for once, she's caught him by surprise. "That's extremely generous, Regina. Are you offering to purchase the construction materials?"

"Not 'purchase,' exactly. I thought I would take the plans she's drawn up and—"

"Conjure a building to her specifications."

"Using an existing building. As they would say in the old world, it would be a win-win situation."

She has him stumped. "What building would that be? Everything's in use."

"Here, yes, but there's a perfectly good castle going to waste." She places her hands on his desk and leans forward; she's actually excited. "It could be the library that Belle and David dream of. It's even big enough to house a school."

"What castle is that?"

"Yours." Before he can digest that, she plunges in, breathlessly. "It's completely intact, it's huge, it's already got a huge library, and a museum of sorts. Labs where the kids could study chemistry and physics. Chambers where they could practice music and dance and art—spinning and weaving. Why not let me bring it here? I can put it on the hill on the eastern edge of town." She hammers the final nail in. "Let it become a place that people remember for the good it's done, not the hiding place of a monster."

He swallows hard, then he nods sharply. "Thank you, Your Majesty. That's a very thoughtful gift."

She smiles at him—a real smile. And he smiles back. It's a learning moment for the two magic teachers. In that moment, the ground between them shifts ever so slightly.

That night, when she recovers her voice after a long, stunned silence, Belle has an explanation: "It's love. I don't know if it's Henry or Mr. Dove, but that's love working in her. And I accept the gift, gladly."

* * *

Bae and his father are sitting out on their porch after dinner. They're watching the sun go down and Bae's talking about the meetings Snow and David have been holding with Storybrooke's civil engineer to map out a water treatment system. "So we could break ground as early as May of next year," Bae concludes. He falls silent for a bit, then adds bitterly, "Or Emma could just snap her fingers and voila, instant toilets."

"That bothers you, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," he admits.

"She's conflicted about it herself," Rumplestiltskin says. "That's why she's not concentrating. She's not practicing her magic and she's not keeping up with the reading. She's afraid using magic means giving in to it."

"Doesn't it?"

"Having the ability to conjure something changes a person. Of course it does. But with white magic there can be a balance. You can retain your sense of self and still practice magic."

"Not from what I've seen," Bae snipes.

"You don't have an example to follow, and I'm sorry for that. Every mage you've ever known has failed to maintain his independence from the magic. But it can be done: your son will be the proof of it. And Emma—I doubt if she'll ever make magic a part of her life; it will always be, for her, a last resort, to protect her family and this town."

"And to help her relate to what Henry's going through."

"Ah." Rumplestiltskin understands now: Bae feels left out, perhaps envious of the bond that magic gives Emma and Henry. "It's your choice, son. You could do what she's doing, learn just enough to share the experience with Henry. Or you could find another way to connect to him."

"Like what? Baseball?"

"Why not? It works for most fathers." The sun has fallen below the horizon now and an orange paintbrush streak joins the darkening sky with the land wherein their sustenance lies. "Every father goes through this; every father always has. Teenagers think they can't find their own place in the world until they disconnect from their parents, and every father fears the disconnection will be permanent. But deep down, Henry wants to hang onto you as much as you want to hang onto him. You just need to give him an excuse."

"He's moving away from me. I've had him barely for two years and he's moving away from me at the speed of light."

"But you can fly." Rumplestiltskin shifts in his seat. A phantom pain creeps up from his ankle. There's no physical cause for it; it's just an old memory. "He's a teenager and he's changing; he needs to hear his father say he went through the same changes and came out all right."

Bae grunts. "Maybe I didn't, though. I was Peter Pan; I dodged the growing up thing for two hundred years."

"It's not too late. Growing up means learning when, not just how, to use your power. I don't have an example to show you, but you can exercise your power and still be the man you want to be. You'll just have to take me on faith."

* * *

Four men stand in a cloak room just off the Great Hall. The beloved Doctor Hopper, here as a friend rather than a counselor, wears an off-the-rack suit brought to him by a wedding guest from out of town—way out of town. As the grandson of the queen of this castle, Henry is dressed in a yellow, high-necked jacket with epaulets, made special for this occasion by his mother, the other queen—the jacket, Dove assured them, was _mostly_ sewn by her own hand. As the consort-to-be of the princess-sheriff, Bae is dressed in a red jacket with silver braid on the chest; it looks somewhat familiar, his father thinks, knowing it was borrowed from David's closet. As the untitled commoner of the family, Rumplestiltskin wears a simple but new shirt, made from the same silk as his bride's wedding gown, and dyed a midnight blue that, he's aware, makes him appear more broad-shouldered than he really is.

Out of old habit, his hand moves to his collar to adjust a tie that isn't there. He doesn't mind that his shirt is a Rumplestiltskin original instead of Armani, but he does miss his tie collection.

David pokes his head in. "Everybody ready? Anybody nervous?"

"I am," Henry confesses, but the grooms glance at each other and shake their heads. The princeling watches his grandfather's fingers seek something, and Henry realizes what's missing: with a flash of his hand, he conjures a plum-colored silk tie that looks a whole like one from Gold's Armani collection. Rumplestiltskin's fingers relax as they smooth the tie. "Thank you, Henry. This one was my favorite."

"I remembered." Pleased with himself, the boy is no longer nervous.

Bae nods: his father now looks ready for the big day. Except. . . Bae knows those worn-out Doc Martens are all the footgear his father has, but. . . . "Dad, the boots." He gestures.

Rumplestiltskin follows his son's gaze and a muscle in his cheek twitches. "Belle understands," he mutters.

Bae keeps staring at those boots. He knows what this day means to his father; he remembers that clothes once meant something to Rumplestiltskin. He deliberates, and then he decides. "If you'll let me, Dad, I'd like to help."

Rumplestiltskin raises a puzzled eyebrow. Bae snaps his fingers. Rumplestiltskin's feet are encased in a puff of orange smoke; when it clears, the Doc Martens have been replaced by black Ferragamos. Rumplestiltskin's eyes widen and his voice cracks as he says, "Thank you, Bae. They're perfect." He nods to David. "Now we're ready, Your Highness."

David signals Dove, who raps on the door of Emma's bedchambers. Snow bestows a final good luck kiss on her daughter's cheek and steps carefully in her long white robe into the corridor to proceed to the Great Hall. As she enters, the congregation stands as one, and birds perched along the ceiling beams begin to sing in harmony, for though the town has no pianos or guitars, there must be music for a wedding. Snow glides down the red carpet to the front of the hall, and beneath a tapestry borrowed from the Dark Castle, she turns and smiles at her people and blinks back tears.

In the bedchambers, Emma cracks the door open just a bit and peeks out. "Everybody's here. The prime minister from Gloucy's in the second row."

"Very nice of him to come all this way," Belle remarks, then presses her bridesmaid in a hug. "And you! It's a miracle that you're here."

Ruby adjusts the tea rose that's tucked behind Belle's ear. "It helps when your boyfriend works for True Love herself. You look gorgeous, by the way. That dress is to die for; the silk is as fine as butterfly's wing."

"My husband's handiwork," Belle boasts.

"He still has magic in his fingers," Emma's bridesmaid says.

"Don't say that," Belle and Emma exclaim in unison, and Regina just smirks.

A rap on the door is followed by Dove's inquiry: "Ready, ladies? It's time."

The townsfolk turn their heads as the bridal party enters: Ruby, linked arm in arm with Archie, then Regina and Henry, then Belle on Maurice's arm, and finally Emma with David. They approach the queen and Maurice and David release the brides, moving to seats on either side in the front row.

Rumplestiltskin and Bae, standing on opposite sides of Snow, grin as if they're the luckiest men in two worlds. Snow makes a gesture, the birds stop singing and the audience sits down. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this most happy occasion, our first ever wedding, and one that is so precious to me, as my husband and I give our beloved daughter's hand to a wonderful young man, and as we unite in marriage two people who have become dear to us. The laws of our land grant me the great honor of officiating at this auspicious event, but it's to an even higher law that I submit, and I entreat the queen who rules above us all to join us in our celebration of the victory of her efforts. Bless, O Love, these whom you have brought together. Let them be ever mindful that we look to them as your representatives on earth, proof where faith and hope abide, love will grow.

"Do you, Rumplestiltskin, take this woman, Belle, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, until death do you part?"

Rumplestiltskin takes Belle's hands in his, and as he meets her eyes, he feels a warmth envelope him. She smiles and suddenly a white light appears behind her and all around her. A murmur in the crowd tells him he's not imagining things. The light takes him in, comforts him, strengthens him; he recognizes it as magic, but none he's ever touched before: it's pure and gentle and certain. He speaks with its strength: "I do."

"Do you, Belle, take this man, Rumplestiltskin, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, until death do you part?"

Belle squeezes his hands. "I do."

"Then by exchanging rings, let your words be made life."

"With this ring, I thee wed." Rumplestiltskin slips the steel ring onto her finger. "With it I bestow upon thee all the treasures of my mind, my heart and my hands."

Belle's hands shake a little as she slides a silver ring onto his finger. "With this ring I thee wed, and with it I bestow upon thee all the treasures of my mind, my heart and my hands."

Rumplestiltskin moves to Belle's side so they can face Bae and Emma. Snow brings a hand up her mouth and stifles a sniffle as she continues, "My dear Baelfire. . . Do you, Baelfire, take this woman, Emma, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, until death do you part?"

And now Rumplestiltskin can see what the guests saw earlier: the white light appears, growing brighter as it envelopes Baelfire and Emma as they clasp hands. Rumplestiltskin casts a hasty glance in the audience: in the third row sits Mr. Slightly. Rumplestiltskin mouths a silent _thank you_, and Slightly nods, and then the two men return their attention to Peter Pan the Ninth.

That irresistible grin of Bae's melts every heart in the Great Hall. "I do."

"My darling Emma, I'm so proud of you!" Snow bursts. She straightens her shoulders, resuming her dignity and her role. "Do you, Emma, take this man, Baelfire, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, until death do you part?"

Emma grins her own irresistible grin. "I do."

With the exchange of their gold rings, Snow declares, "What True Love has joined together, let no one put asunder. Grooms, you may kiss your brides."

**Third Year**

"Poker game tonight?" Whale calls out as Rumplestiltskin comes in from the fields, accompanied by his wife, the princes David and Baelfire, and a dozen other weary laborers.

"Sure," David says. "Right after supper."

"Count me and Em in," Bae says.

But Rumplestiltskin shakes his head and a sly smile spreads slowly across his sunburnt cheeks as he reaches out for Belle's hand. "Maybe next week, Doc."

"That's what you said last week," Whale grumps. "When you gonna give me a chance to win back those neckties you conned off me?"

"There's a difference between 'conning' and 'bluffing,'" Rumplestiltskin points out. "When you've learned what the difference is, maybe you'll win those ties back."

"Well, let me borrow one of the back, then. We're gonna need formal wear next month."

"For a price, Doc, you can buy them all back."

"You're just no fun at all."

Belle tossed her head. "On the contrary, Victor; I find him quite entertaining."

The schoolroom door bursts open but instead of the elementary-schoolers, it's the teacher who scampers out first. Panting, she catches up to her husband. "It's Regina," she gasps, then she has to stop to catch her breath.

David seizes her arms protectively. "What did she do, Snow?" He turns to the fieldhands. "Bows and arrows, swords, pitchforks—grab whatever you've got for a weapon and—"

"No, no, nothing like that. Look," Snow gestures to her teaching assistant, Nurse Kelly, who comes forward with a red balloon trailing behind her. Kelly passes the balloon to David, who discovers a scroll dangling from the string. "She's asked us to host and I said yes. Well, it makes sense because the SpiralCastle's four days' ride from here and she's invited the entire town."

David unravels the scroll and reads the message aloud. "'Dear friends, please join us at seven o'clock on the evening of the next full moon as we—'" he squints hard at the parchment, then, stunned, passes it to Rumplestiltskin. "Here, I'm not sure I'm seeing what I think I'm seeing."

Rumplestiltskin finishes the proclamation. "'As we join our hands in matrimony'"—he pokes at the last word, going over it again letter by letter. "'M-A-T-R-I'—yeah, it says 'matrimony.' 'As we join our hands in matrimony. Come as you are. Love, Regina and Frank.'" He passes the parchment to Belle, who verifies that he's read the contents correctly.

"She brought it by personally this afternoon. She asked me to officiate," Snow says uncertainly. "She said I did such a nice job last year."

"I don't think it's a joke," David surmises. "It didn't explode when I opened it."

**Fourth Year**

Half-asleep, Rumple stares into the campfire, watching sticks transform to ash. This is the nature of things, the nature _within_ things, though modern man in his linear thinking doesn't see it: nothing dies, nothing is ever lost. Rather, everything transforms. Even 300-year-old reformed monsters.

Those who practice magic believe in the power of geometry: the unifying principle of the triangle, the perfect harmony of the square, the balance of opposing forces illustrated by the square. But there is no more powerful a symbolic shape than the circle, which, if man would only see it, shows him the infinity and connectivity in everything—shows him the highest power.

In a circle around this campfire sit three generations, representing the infinity of his family: the elder, Rumplestiltskin himself of course; the young man, Baelfire; and the adolescent, Henry. Rumplestiltskin supposes he should include the fourth camper, David, through Henry and Emma part of the family, whether the two men like it or not—and these days, though not friends, they've progressed to a sort of partnership.

Just beyond the campfire ring is another ring: a makeshift rope-and-post corral in which seven horses crop grass and swat flies with swishing tails. These horses are descendants of tame ancestors who escaped stables, barns and fenced pastures when the curse ripped up the manmade structures. Horses, like all of the kingdom's livestock, have roamed free for three decades now, yet, just as their ancestors always carried a collective memory of the wild within them, the horses of today's forest carry a collective memory of domesticity. They seem to know instinctively that with capture comes care, and that men are not ogres but rather protectors and providers. That is not to say they have surrendered their freedom willingly, nor that they will not seek avenues for escape, but rather, that for the time in which they are in captivity, they bear their new lot without grudge.

Beyond the corral is yet another ring, the canyon. Water and grass are plentiful here, this time of year, and so the wildlife comes, and behind them, the men and women. Under David's careful management, the herds and the flocks are culled, just enough being taken to sustain the kingdom and keep the populations under control. In the late weeks of summer each year, David leads a few companions to this canyon to fetch back thirty horses, one for each family in Evaton. Always, Henry is one of the chosen, and often, Bae; this year, for the fourth, David chose Rumplestiltskin.

Queen Snow's consort doesn't know it, and Rumplestiltskin will never admit it, but this choice has fulfilled a long-held secret fantasy. In the morning, before the sun has fully risen, he will swing back up into the saddle once more, press the heels of his Doc Martens against the ribs of his chestnut mare, whom he calls Regina, and slapping his hand against his thigh he'll yeehaw to the half-wild horses, pushing them forward, toward their new home. In three days, covered in dust caked on with sweat, he will dismount at last in the corral he and Bae built. Belle will greet him with a kiss that brings the circulation back into his weary legs, and when he's rubbed down Regina and turned her loose in her pasture, he will throw his arm around his wife's waist, and they will walk to together into their home.

There is much to be done, for soon they—Belle and Rumplestiltskin, Bae and Emma and Henry—will be traveling to another wedding, to be held in a small town in upstate New York. They will be traveling by means of a magic more powerful than beans and curses; gifted to them by True Love herself, through her employee (soon to be retired), Mr. Slightly. Rumplestiltskin is a little wary about this mode of travel. It's not that he's concerned that having a spell cast upon him will upset his sobriety, but that Belle's been experiencing queasiness in the mornings. But Belle says nausea is a small price to pay for a chance to see Ruby and New York, and True Love has promised the journey will be gentle.

It's still a struggle, living as a middle-aged man who has no position to speak of, except that of begrudgingly respected elder in a village of the young; no power other than what he can wield with his hands and his words. It's a struggle, too, living without magic in a land of magic, though the length of time between the hard days is expanding. This is no land for old men who possess no magic, but he's here, his wife is here, his son and grandson are here, and promises link them, forge them into a family; the promises they've made to each other and the promises True Love made to them when she blessed them with each other.

If there's one thing Rumplestiltskin has learned in his long life, it's that True Love always keeps her promises.

* * *

**A/N. And finally, we will meet a most remarkable child.**


	46. Chapter 46

Epilogue

**A/N. U2's "Original of the Species" makes a reprise for this chapter. Many thanks to Grace, Sudoku, Anarra, Sbcarri, Hermitess, Ieyere, Stineblicher, Dawnfire, and WastefulWaif, for all the encouragement. For all the Rumbellers and Swanfirers out there who felt like Season 2 must've been written by Regina and Cora ("Our heart collection needs refreshing, Mom. I know! Let's rip out the fans' hearts!"), this fluffy chapter is for you, with lots of Rumbelle love.**

**For Grace and Sudoku: I tweaked the chapter for you, dearies: a little more about Annabelle and the addition of Davy. Hope you like the changes!**

* * *

**Fifth Year**

Ruby and Slightly have come for a visit, compliments of his boss' magic; they have brought care packages from New York: clothes, tools, books, mp3 players, batteries, and a generator. Those are all communal gifts, meant to be distributed; Slightly's brought some special gifts just for the family: cans of coffee for Bae, boxes of instant cocoa for Emma and rose-scented shampoo for Belle.

The last box, Slightly explains, doesn't contain gifts. "These rightfully belong to you."

Emma rips off the lid to find a child's mobile carefully wrapped in the _Village Voice_ (Bae immediately claims the newspapers for his own). As she holds it up to the light, the glass unicorns dance and cast rainbows on the ceiling. "Didn't I see this some—Gold! This was in your shop!"

"Before that," Rumplestiltskin says, "it was in your nursery. Your parents will be thrilled to see it. But how did you come across it, Slightly?"

"Hey, let's give this to Archie," Bae suggests. "He's gonna need stuff like this."

"No way!" Emma objects. "This is going in _our_ nursery."

"Uhm, babe, do you have something to tell me?" Bae gulps.

"Not yet, but maybe this will serve as inspiration."

Subtly, Belle leans over and whispers something in her husband's ear that makes _him_ gulp: "Maybe Emma doesn't have something to tell yet, but I do. As soon as everyone goes home."

"Go on, there's more in the box," Ruby urges, and Emma reaches in again, this time retrieving a guitar. "Wonderful! We can have music! But nobody here can play."

Rumplestiltskin offers quietly, "I can. Or could, anyway; it's been a long time." Emma hands him the guitar and he manages to produce a squeaky C major, a G major and D major. "Time to learn some lullabies."

"Do you recognize this guitar?" Slightly asks.

"Looks like one I used to have in the shop. Used to play it sometimes, on slow days."

"That's what it is," Ruby declares. "Some of us went back to Maine last week, just to see if we could find any trace of Storybrooke. We hunted for hours, but there's not so much as stop sign left standing. Just trees and grass, wildflowers, birds. Granny and I saw a black wolf near the river."

Emma casts a hasty glance at Slightly, but he shakes his head, warning her against asking: Ruby doesn't remember her Enchanted Forest past, and it's best that no one ever mentions it.

"But we found a few things, where we think the pawnshop used to be," Ruby continues. "Including these."

Belle speculates, "The giants—in the last few minutes, I remember seeing a pack of giants raid the shop, throwing stuff around. They must've done us the favor of throwing these things outside."

"Something of yours is in bottom of the box, Belle," Ruby prompts.

Delighted, Belle fishes around. She comes up with a velvet-lined wooden box. "Doesn't look familiar."

"We bought the box just to protect what's inside. Open it." Ruby gives her a little nudge.

Belle pushes the lid off and for a moment stares, then she covers her mouth to hold back a cry. "Oh my gods! Rumplestiltskin, look!" With both hands she lifts out the box's contents: a white china cup, with a touch of gold on the handle and a twig of blue on the bowl. She turns it in her hands until the chip faces up, and then tears moisten her eyelashes.

"My boss took the liberty of repairing it," Slightly says.

Rumplestiltskin ponders: he remembers perfectly clearly instructing Regina to surrender the cup to magic as his payment for the restoration of his health. The price was fair: magic would not have rejected it. That leaves only one other explanation: Regina must have disobeyed him and paid the price herself. He decides to ask her, for, whatever she paid, it must have been precious to her. . . but then he changes his mind. She has never mentioned this largess, in all these years: keeping the gift secret must please her, and he should respect that.

He smiles a little, for her gift could only have been motivated by Love. Once again, Rumplestiltskin is astounded by the tremendous power of True Love. He clears his throat. "We, uh, we'll have a talk with her when the moon rises tonight. We have a lot to thank her for."

Slightly grins like the Cheshire Cat. "She'll love that." Then he addresses Emma and Bae. "She says we can come back again next year, so if there's anything you want, make a list."

"What do you miss?" Ruby asks. "Besides us, of course."

"Granny's burgers," Emma answers promptly. "Bear claws. Cinnamon. My yellow Bug."

"Jelly donuts, central heat and air, the New York Yankees," Bae enumerates.

"Belle? What do you miss?"

"Hmm?" Belle is preoccupied with the cup. "Oh. Movies. The Internet. Microwave ovens."

"Rumplestiltskin?"

His hands move soundlessly along the neck of the guitar, shaping chords that only he hears. His sight is turned inward.

"Rumplestiltskin?" Ruby tries again. "What do you miss about Storybrooke?"

He blinks, returning to the present to grin wickedly. "Granny charging me extra for pickles. Rent day." He runs a hand through his thinning hair. "Toupees."

Ruby gives him a little shove. "Seriously. What do you miss?"

He glances at Belle, remembering a conversation from long ago—and forgiving himself for it. _"You're right. There is something I love: my things!"_

"Seriously?" He thinks a moment. "Not a thing. Not one single solitary thing."

* * *

**Eleventh Year**

Rumplestiltskin is spinning. Winter is coming—Belle reports that the meteorologist, Grace, has predicted a late winter, but Rumplestiltskin's joints tell him otherwise, and his joints are never wrong (it's the only form of prognostication he's ever trusted). Winter is coming and wool will be needed: blankets and sweaters, slacks and hoods, so he stokes the fire, and as Belle heats the water for tea, he spins, his hands on autopilot.

This first batch of wool, however, isn't for general consumption. It's for mittens, yellow mittens with a little blue puffball dangling from the wrist, and the mittens will be a Christmas gift for a special someone, the first one of her kind, the first native Evatonian.

He hears the school bell ring in the distance. In his mind's eye he sees Queen Snow in her white wool sweater (yarn by Rumplestiltskin, weaving by Belle), her arms folded, because she too will feel the bite of frost in the air, standing in the open doorway as Evaton Elementary's combined kindergarten and first grades burst free from their eight-hour confinement. When the last child—that will be Archie's Annabelle, adopted from a Gloucy orphanage; she's a dreamer and a dawdler, and Archie adores her for it—has trotted out onto the playground, the queen will gather her books and her bags and pause for a moment with her finger on the light switch (because even after a full year of the luxury of artificial lights, she still celebrates the advent of electricity in Evaton). Then someone will call a hello to her, bringing her out of her reverie, and she'll flip the switch, close the door behind her, and make her way back to her castle.

It's a strange world. The queen teaches elementary school in the Dark Castle; her consort works construction while their son-in-law comes along behind, wiring the houses for electricity; her daughter employs magic to drive away ogres and pirates; her older grandson, the future philosopher-mage-king, has crossed worlds to study at Oxford. He too is the first one of his kind. And the librarian is married to the former king of evil, who now babysits Bae and Emma's two-year-old Davy while spinning wool and milking cows.

Despite the chill in the wind, Belle has opened the living room window (real glass! A birthday gift from her husband), and for just this purpose: so that he and she can hear the approaching giggle. Or rather, giggles—today there are two; some sort of footrace going on. Belle leans out the window, and Rumplestiltskin can tell from the way her fanny tenses in her tight jeans that she's annoyed (that's a habit of hers: fanny clenching). So that means, he supposes, that the kids ran through the flower garden again. But instead of chewing them out, she lets it go, pulls her head back inside; the flowers died two months ago; no use complaining. "Walnut cookies today," she calls out to gigglers. "Cora, can you stay for a little while?"

A high-pitched voice answers, "Mom says I can play until four-thirty." Then there's a giggle: "But Daddy says I can play until five."

Belle stifles her own giggle and glances over her shoulder at her husband and whispers, "She's such a little manipulator."

Rumplestiltskin grins back. "The only one who doesn't seem to know that is Regina."

"Well, I hope Frank will get a little firmer with her as she grows up. She needs discipline."

Rumplestiltskin chuckles. "Which 'she'—Cora or Regina?"

Now Belle can't hold in her giggle, despite the fact that the child being spoken of has dashed onto the front porch, right behind her little hostess. Cora, who's dressed in patent leather shoes and a velvet coat, waits politely at the threshold until Belle invites her in. Manipulative and headstrong like her mother, she is; but her mother is a stickler for manners, so Cora gets gold stars for etiquette in Queen Snow's class.

"Thank you, ma'am," Cora says in answer to the invitation. Since most Evatonians go by their original names, surnames are rare here; children address their elders as "sir" or "ma'am" rather than "Mr." or "Ms." One of the smaller features of this strange, hybrid world.

Cora's little hostess untwines herself from her mother's arms and accepts a kiss on the top of her blonde head. "Mama! I timesed three numbers in my head today."

Belle's mouth drops open and she looks at her husband over her daughter's head. The child is saying that she correctly multiplied three numbers without writing them down. Belle is stunned: Queen Snow hasn't even introduced addition to the first grade yet. Most of the child's classmates can't figure two plus two.

"MIT," Rumplestiltskin predicts. "Or Stanford." He's suspected it all along, ever since his two-year-old arranged a stack of numbered blocks in sequence. Her other skills are on par for her age, but her mind grasps numbers with a facility that Archie calls "gifted" ("Her father and I," Belle argues, "are the ones who were given a gift").

Belle nods. "Maybe we need to ask Emma and Bae to learn to spin gold."

Rumplestiltskin shrugs. "Don't worry. When she's ready for college, the money will be there." As it was for Henry: scholarships from Oxford were supplemented by contributions from the entire community, the largest coming from the Doves. For once, no one asked Regina how she'd acquired the money. . . .

"Ready for cookies?" Belle asks.

"Yes, ma'am." Cora slips off her velvet coat and follows Belle into the kitchen, but Maerwynn says, "In a minute."

Rumplestiltskin opens his arms in anticipation. "In a minute" is their special phrase: translated, it means _I want to see Daddy first._

She comes running. She approaches him from the right and sets her body in launch mode, ready to leap onto his knee, then she stops herself: she remembers her daddy had a sore there, before she was born, and even though it's healed there's still a mark. He's assured her his thigh doesn't hurt, but she thinks it looks as if it should, so she never, ever sits on the right knee. The left, however, is free for the pouncing.

Wiggling against his chest until she's comfortable, she tilts her head back to look at him. That's another of their games: she loves to look at him upside down. She says it makes him look bigger. "Hi Daddy."

"Hi honey."

Her eyes are crystal blue, like her mother's, but flecked with gold, and her long fingers flutter when she's excited; Belle says Maerwynn reminds her of the imp in those moments. "Let's spin."

He sets his hands on the wheel again, and she sets her own on top of his. Ever since she could sit up on her own, she's spent a few minutes of her day, every day, like this. Whether she views it as a contribution to his work or just a fun thing to do with daddy, he doesn't know, but it's their ritual. As a toddler she would stare for a solid hour at the wheel—not him, but the wheel—in motion. He used to wonder if it did for her what it does for him, but lately, he thinks her fascination comes from a different place: for her, he suspects, there is math in the wheel, numbers in the patterns of the spinning, equations in the processes. The wheel speaks to her, as it does to him, but in a different language.

Numbers, the ancient mages believed, contain a magic so powerful that it must be locked behind a code that only the wisest and most patient of mages, after centuries of study, can decipher. Numbers, the moderns believe, unlock science's greatest mysteries: the human genome, the origin of the universe, the source of life. Belle and Rumplestiltskin's daughter has been assigned by the Fates to master this highly specialized power, the hybrid of magic and science. She will be as faithful as her mother and as powerful as her father.

And so they spin for a few minutes, in silence, in harmony, ignoring the conversation going on in the kitchen. Perhaps it's bad manners for Maerwynn to ignore her guest. Maybe Maerwynn won't become the social butterfly that Cora will be; maybe she won't become the orator that her nephew Henry is; maybe she won't be the bookworm her mom is or the artist her dad is. But she's going to set the world on its ear; though he can no longer see the future, he's sure of it. She is going to be something amazing.

She already is: the fulfilled promise of True Love.


End file.
